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MOODS    AND    MEMORIES 


BY 

CHARLES  L.  STORY 


THE 
STANFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

NOVEMBER 
1906 


GIFT 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  FATHER 

Who  left  me  the  heritage  of  a  life  right  with 
God  and  helpful  to  his  fellow-men,  and  who 
taught  me  even  as  a  chi/a  that  love  is  rather 
to  be  desired  than  length  of  days  and  right 
eousness  than  great  riches. 


M8Q1571 


FOREWORD 

"Count  it  as  a  thynge  not  havynge  his  full  shape, 
but  as  it  were  borne  afore  hys  tyme,  even  as  a 
thynge  begunne  rather  than  fynnesshed." 

— WILLIAM  TINDALE. 


CONTENTS 
i.  d&en  anfc  JBoohe 


PACK 

THE    INESTIMABLE    BOON'   . 


UKE    TO    UKE 


THE    BETROTHED     ..............................  T2 


TO    A    PHYSICIAN     ................................  T  ? 

MY       NURSE      .....................................  T_j 

LITTLE    LADY     KATHERINE     .....................  T  = 

TO  ELLA  (AGED  ELEVEN)    ..........................  Tf, 

IN     MEMORIAM      ...................................  ,  j 

HAMPTON,    MY    FRIEND    ........................  K) 

REMINISCENCE      ........................  2  1 

THE    SCHOLAR     ..........................  22 

TO     BOOKS    .........................................  27> 

CHILD'S  CHRISTMAS  GIFT  ............................  24 

TO    VICTOR     HUGO     .........................  ?- 

GOETHE      ..................................  2(; 

HAWTHORNE        .  .  :  ..........................  2" 

THOREAU    AT    WALDKN    ...........................  2S> 

TO     GEOFFREY     CHAUCER     .............................  2Q 

AFTER  READING  CERTAIN    OLD   ENGLISH   ROMANCES    ......  30 

HEATHER,    IVY,    AND    YEW     ...........................  32 

KIPLING     ..........................................  ^ 

TO    ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON     ......................  ^j 

TO    AN    INCESSANT   READER    ...........................  36 


CONTENTS 

II.  climes  an&  Seasons 

IN    PRAISE   OF    MISTRESS    SPRING    39 

SPRING      SONG     41 

EASTER   IN    ENGLAND    43 

MAYTIME      44 

ET    IN    ARCADIA    EGO .'  •  •  47 

MIDSUMMER   IN    ENGLAND     49 

EXILED      50 

"THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD"  51 

LOAFING        53 

ON    HILLS   OF   PINE    55 

"TH ALATT  A  \"      •  •  57 

NEAR    MONTEREY 5& 

AUTUMN    WALK   IN    CALIFORNIA    59 

THE     GOLDEN-ROD     62 

THANKSGIVING        ,•  •  64 

BENEDICITE 66 

CHRISTMAS    EVE     °7 

THE    STAR    69 

in.  ttbe  JSoofc  of  tbc  *Re&  "Rose 

THE   GREATEST   OF   THESE    73 

A    COMPLEYNT    TO    CUPID        • 74 

MY    VALENTINE      75 

WITH    A    GIFT   OF   ROSES 7^ 

LOVE'S     PLEA      77 

INCERTITUDE          .  . ' 7& 


CONTENTS 

FOR    MY    LADY'S    BIRTHDAY      79 

WON'T   YOU    BE    MY   COMRADE  ?     80 

TWO      SONNETS     8l 

AN  OLDEN  TALE 83 

MY  LADY'S  GARDEN   85 

MY   COMRADE    .  .  '. 87 

THE    SONG      89 

THE   SILENCES  OF   LOVE       GO 

A    LITTLE   LYRIC    92 

SOMETIMES    YOUR   EYES    ARK   VERY    WISTFUL,   DEAR 93 

CONSUM  M  ATION        95 

WONDERLAND       9^ 

A    MEMORY      97 

GOOD-BY  ! 98 

A    MIDNIGHT    GREETING     1OO 

WITH  A   WILD  ROSE  FOR  "ROSALIND"    IOI 

GEMMA  GEM  M  ARUM        IO2 

QUESTIONING       IO4 

MY  THOUGHT   OF   THEE    I  OS 

iv.  /fcooOs  and  Memories 

MOODS       109 

OUR    NEED Ill 

THE   BLUE   f LOWER    1 13 

A    SONG    FOR    STANFORD     I  15 

THF    WORK   OF   THY    HANDS    T  \7 

LARGESS      .                                                                   1 19 


CONTENTS 

RECEPTIVITY     I2Q 

"FAITH  OF  OUR  FATHERS"    .121 


THE    LEPERS 


124 


THOSE    WASTED   DAYS    12^ 

THE    UNFINISHED    TEMPLE    T26 

BETHEL 


COUPLETS 


127 

129 

TWELVE   QUATRAINS    130 

SLEEPLESS      ^4 

FROM    THE    SICK    ROOM     j  -^ 

FAILURE      137 

VICTOR       T38 

DE  IMITATIONS  CHRISTI 139 

THE  NEW  EARTH   140 

"THE  QUICK  AND  THE  DEAD" 143 

A     PRAYER       I44 

WHEN    I    LIE    DYING    145 

THE    ANSWER      146 

EVEN    AS   A    MOTHER    147 

MORS  IMPOTENS   148 

ALPHA   AND  OMEGA    149 

"SHALL  THE  IMMORTAL  DIE?"  150 

"IF  IT  WERE  ONLY  A  DREAM"  151 

HORIXONS        1^2 

KVKN  AS  HERE,  SO  THERE  153 

T    M  UST  GO   SOFTLY    155 

]  M  MORTALITY      . 156 


MEN    AND    BOOKS 


"Fine  writing,  next  to  fine  doing,  is  the  top  thing  in  the  world,'" — JKtat*. 


THE  INESTIMABLE  BOON. 

To  each  of  us  the  years  benignant  bring 
Some  gift :  to  one  the  power  to  inflame 
By  voice  inspired  the  souls  of  men,  to  wring 
From  eyes  long  dry  impassioned  tears,  to  make 
Minds  dormant  leap  with  virile  thought,  or  wake 
Men  somnolent  to  deeds  of  deathless  fame. 

Unto  another  cometh  skill  to  paint 
With  cunning  art  the  colors  of  the  rose 
So  deftly,  that  on-lookers  catch  the  faint 
Fragrance  from  honey-laden  blossoms  shed 
What  time  the  clusters  pendulous  had  fed 
The  bandit  bees  that  all  their  sweets  disclose. 

And  oftimes  he  whom  the  Power  Supreme 

To  thrill  the  world  with  word  or  work  denies, 

Exultant  in  his  stalwartness  of  limb, 

His  lithe  and  sinewy  strength  and  rugged  health, 

Complacent,  finds  a  plenitude  of  wealth 

In  firm-knit  muscles  and  in  clear-lit  eves. 


THE  INESTIMABLE,  BOON. 

And  even  to  him  driven  by  adverse  Fate 
To  drain  the  bitter  dregs  of  life,  to  move 
Slowly  in  torturous  anguish,  to  await 
Evasive  Fortune  with  despairing  eyes,— ~ 
Even  to  him  one  gift  she  ne'er   denies : 
The  inestimable  boon — a  Mother's  Love. 


10 


LIKE  TO  LIKE. 

TO    W.  F.  H.  AND  F.  P.  J. 

If  he  be  not  of  your  kind 
Let  him  go  his  way  and  mind 
You  your  own :     discord  is  blind. 

But  if  there  be  no  divorce 
In  thought  or  heart  or  intercourse, 
Cleave  to  him — yea,  though  by  force. 

For  if  one  and  one  there  be 
Of  like  kind  in  their  degree 
Greet  they,  glad,  as  comrades  free. 

Friends  we  find  not  every  day, 
And  when  one  doth  chance  our  way 
Fellowship  should  have  full  play. 


11 


THE  BETROTHED. 

(TO  A.  M.  B.) 

Ne'er  have  I  seen  such  perfect  joy  before 

Upon  a  human  countenance  expressed. 

What  yearnings  vague.  I  wonder,  stir  her  breast, 

To  what  far  height  doth  her  rapt  spirit  soar  ? 

Ah,  it  is  sweet  to  watch  the  face  of  her 

And  see  that  strange  new  light  within  her  eyes. 

To  be  betrothed  must  be  paradise 

When  it  such  radiant  beauty  can  confer. 

And  now  she  doeth  innumerable  kindnesses 

As  willingly  as  if  they  were  for  him. 

Such  power  hath  Love  to  transfigure  all  the  dim 

Tracts  of  our  lives  with  self-forgetfulness. 

If  all  were  then  as  beautiful  as  she. 

I  would  all  maids  full  soon  betrothed  might  be ! 


TO  A   PHYSICIAN. 

No  other  craft  is  quite  so  loved  of  men 
As  the  physician's,  whose  it  is  to  bring 
Assuaging  remedies  and  everything 

To  calm  life's  fret  and  lift  from  beds  of  pain. 

'Tis  a  true  poet-craft,  for  in  some  phase 
Pain  is  life's  one  experience  known  to  all, 
And  he  who  frees  a  sufferer  from  its  thrall 

Writes  on  that  sufferer's  heart  in  noblest  phrase. 

Thou,  Anderson,  best  type  of  those  who  heal, 
Brusque,  taciturn,  and  bluff,  and  seeming  cold, 
Yet  quick  to  help,  and  kind  and  genial-souled— 

We  know  who  suffer  that  thou  knowest  to  feel. 
The  poet's  theme  must  universal  be : 
Who  shares  our  pain  the  truest  poet  he! 


13 


MY  NURSE. 

Keen-witted,  quick-footed, 

Quiet  of  tongue, 
Calm-minded,  kind-hearted, 

Deft-handed,  strong ; 
Considerate,  cheerful, 

Yet  dominant  she 
And  firm  in  each  crisis — 

My  good  nurse  to  me! 


LITTLE  LADY  KATHARINE 

A  little  child  scarce  past  her  baby  days, 
With  laughing  eyes  and  silken-shadowy  hair, 
And  kissing  lips  and  dimpling  features  fair, 
I  meet  her  often,  with  her  shy,  sweet  ways. 
She  prattles  gayly  while  glad  laughter  plays 
Upon  her  rosebud  lips,  and  sets  astir 
The  hearts  of  all  who  chance  to  look  on  her 
And  stoop  to  chat  with  her  and  pet  and  praise. 
She  doth  not  know,  this  little  lady  dear, 
How  she  doth  lighten  many  a  dreary  load, 
And  by  her  baby  smile  make  smooth  life's  road, 
And  many  a  racking  heartache  disappear. 
Wearing  her  innocence  like  an  aureole, 
She  doth  illumine  every  darkened  soul. 


TO    ELLA. 

(AGED  ELEVEN.) 

E'er  keep  thy  joyous  heart, 

Ella,  as  now ; 
Never  may  sorrow  cast 

Shade  o'er  thy  brow. 

Fair  as  a  lily 

Still  thy  face  gleams ; 
In  thy  life's  fairyland 

Beautiful  dreams 

Angels   breathe   low   to  thee, 

Hovering  around, 
Angel  wings  cover  thee 

Slumbering   sound. 

So  may  their  company 

Ever  be  given, 
So  may  they  finally 

Woo  thee  to  heaven. 


16 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

(THE  REl\  J.  C.  SIMMONS,  D.  D.j 

The  good  gray  head  is  bowed, 

The  mobile  face  is  still, 
The  stately  form  of  strength  is  shorn, 

Inert  the  tireless  will. 

"Dust  unto  dust"  is  said, 

The  grave  is  covered  o'er; 
Turn  we  lonely  from  the  dead 

Unto  life  once  more. 

So  he  would  have  us   do 

Whom  here  we  leave  behind, 
Who,  to  his  every  duty  true, 

Lived  for  his  kind. 

And  shall  we,  then,  forget 

His  godly  walks  and  ways, 
The  good  he  wrought,  the  joy  he  brought  ? 

Never,  through  all  our  days! 


17 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

He  was  our  pioneer 

When  all  the  paths  were  dark, 
Peace-bringer,  and  tried  comforter, 

True  keeper  of  the  ark. 

His  was  the  welcome  voice, 
Ready  with  jest  and  cheer 

To  bid  the  stricken  soul  rejoice 
And  free  the  heart  from  fear. 

He  lives  forevermore, 

Not  only  with  his  Lord, 
But  in  a  thousand  lives  that  bore 

Fruitage  from  his  word. 

Not  cypress  boughs  nor  yew, 
But  laurel  wreaths  we  bring, 

To  deck  his  brow  who  heareth  now 
The  "well  done!"  of  the  King. 


18 


HAMPTON,  MY  FRIEND. 
I. 

"Come,  Hampton,  come,  and  seek  the  M,orning  Land!" 

In  youth  the  Master,  looking  on  him,  smiled, 
And  Hampton  took  the  loving,  outstretched  hand 

With  the  sweet  confidence  of  a  little  child. 
So  doth  he  follow  wheresoever  led, 

His  trust  by  foolish  doubtings  undeterred, 
And  many  a  faith  is  quickened  that  was  dead 

And  many  a  life  to  holier  living  stirred. 
And  he  is  welcome  as  the  glad  May  sun 

Wherever  men  still  love  the  better  part. 
His  is  a  holy  life-work  well  begun. — 

What    say   you?   "Death    has   stilled    that    noble 

heart?" 

Ah,  no !     That  ardent  spirit  onward  fares 
To  do  its  Master's  bidding  otherwheres ! 


19 


HAMPTON,  MY  FRIEND. 
II. 

Godly  his  walk  and  conversation  are. 

No  word  of  malice  from  his  lips  is  heard, 
He  hails  God's  opportunities  afar, 

No  deed  of  kindness  is  by  him  deferred. 
His  Master's  business  him  alone  beguiles, 

Of  him  his  meditation  day  by  day, 
And  many  a  child  is  happier  for  his  smiles, 

And  many  a  toiler  gladdened  on  his  way. 
He  may  not  pause  while  yet  some  light  is  lent 

For  the  fulfillment  of  the  Master's  will. 
Rest  may  come  later  when  the  day  is  spent, 

Now  he  must  labor  with  us,  for  us,  still. — 
''That  day  is  spent?  His  spirit  quenched  in  night?" 
Ah,  no !  the  dark  is  here :  he  hails  the  Morning  Light ! 


20 


REMINISCENCE. 

(After  reading  "In  Terms  of  Life <  by  Professor  W.    W.    Thoburn.) 

The  portals  of  thy  mind  were  open  flung 
Unto  the  truth  whence-ever  it  might  come, 
And  often  thy  rapt  soul  was  stricken  dumb 
By  that  last  vision  of  which  Dante  sung. 
God  hadst  thou  seen  and  in  His  presence  dwelt, 
An  High  Priest  guarding  many  mysteries : 
The  song  of  birds,  the  laugh  of  children — these 
Were  shrines  whereat  thy  kindred  spirit  knelt. 

And  yet  thine  was  no  life  from  men  apart — 
No  star  withdrawn  beyond  our  utmost  ken ; 
Thou  wert  our  true  Confessor  of  the  heart. 
And  women  came  to  thee  and  stalwart  men. 
Burdened  with  doubts  or  torn  by  chastisemenl, 
To  learn  from  thy  lips  their  benign  intent. 


21 


THE  SCHOLAR. 

TO  E.  F. 

Full  many  roam  through  Time's  fair  garden  plot, 
Forgetful  of  the  gardener  and  his  toil, 

And  pluck  the  delicate  clusters  that  were  not 
Had  he  not  striven  with  the  grudging  soil. 


TO  BOOKS. 

I  would  that  I  could  speak  in  praise  of  you 
Something,  unpenned  by  greater  ones  than  I, 
To  thrill  the  soul  and  reinspire  the  high 

Resolve  in  men  to  feed  of  you  anew. 

Alas!  how  feeble  are  the  powers  to  do 
Of  us  poor  little  ones,  who  humbly  sit 
And  worship  dumbly  what  the  Masters  writ 

In  words  of  flame  of  what  is  good  and  true ! 

Ah !  when  we  bend  with  glad,  tear-brimming  eyes 
O'er  their  strong  pages,  let  us  not  forget 
The  chastisement  of  grief  and  keen  regret, 

The  pangs  of  want,  the  relentless  agonies, 

Ere  Homer,  Dante,  their  large  words  indite: 
Only  in  their  hearts'  blood  do  the  Immortals  write. 


23 


CHILD'S    CHRISTMAS    GIFT. 

Soon,  alas,  too  soon ! — will  come  the  heat  and  burden 

of  the  day, 
Let   them  in   life's   golden   morning   dream   the   long 

glad  hours  away; 
Rapt  to  fairie  lands  of  fancy,  turn  the  page  with  fresh 

delight ; 
•Thrill  with  all  the  fire  and  valour  of     their  favorite 

"parfyt  knyght," 
Free  beleaguered    castles,  champion    friendless   beauty, 

or  with  zest 

Follow  some  gallant  adventurer  on  his  lonely  peri 
lous  quest, 
Give   them    BOOKS,   these   youthful   dreamers,   filled 

with  deeds  of  high  emprise, 
So  the  vision  shall  not  fail  them  when  the  rose  of 

morning  dies, 
But  the  splendor  of  its  seeming  that  uplighted  all 

the  dawn 
Through  their  lives  shall  linger  with  them — at  their 

deaths  shall  lure  them  on! 


24 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO. 

August,  aggressive,  and  superbly  strong, 

Valiant  of  voice,  of  visage  leonine, 
Inveterate  foe  to  every  fraud  and  wrong, 

VICTOR — how  fit  was  that  first  name  of  thine ! 
For  it  was  thy  stern  indignation  lashed 

Smug  shamdom  and  conventional  pretense, 
From  thy  relentless  satire  slunk  abashed 

Subservient  Law  in  abject  impotence. 

Yet  spite  of  caustic  pen  and  mien  austere, 
Thou  wert  a  man  beneficently   mild ; 

Thy  great  heart  burned  with  love,  to  thee  were  dear 
The  wretched  outcast  and  the  orphaned  child. 

Noblesse  oblige! — "Saint  Welcome,"  this  must  be 

More  than  a  motto  ere  Man  may  be  free! 


25 


GOETHE. 

As  the  lone  watcher  on  some  mountain  height, 

Uplifted  far  beyond  the  haunts  of  men, 
Pierces  the  vast  profound  with  searching  ken 

To  read  the  mystery  of  the  starry  night ; 
So,  poet,  did'st  thou  probe  the  living  soul : 

With  eye  undazzled,  mind  dispassionate, 
Weighing  the  mysteries  of  Growth  and  Fate — 

Weaving  their  message  in  one  cosmic  whole. 

Goethe,  keen-eyed  astronomer  of  song, 

Let  quibbling  critics  carp  and  call  thee  cold ; 

To  us  who  know  thee  thou  art  genial-souled 
And  lovable ; — one  unto  whom  belong 
Self-poise  and  calm  reserve,  yet  none  the  less 
Warm-dropping  tears  and  depth  of  tenderness. 


HAWTHORNE. 

No  mortal  eye  e'er  peered  into  his  soul, 

To   whom   the  heart's    deep-hidden    springs    were 

known, 
To  whose  keen  gaze  men's  sins  were  as  a  scroll : 

As  at  his  death,  so  all  his  life,  alone. 


27 


THOREAU  AT  WALDEN. 

With  Nature's  very  self  held'st  rapt  commune, 

Shy  recluse,  who  did'st  dwell  so  long  remote 
From  fellow-habitants.     Her  rarest  boon 

To  thee  she  gave :  to  know  the  variant  note 
Of  bird  or  insect ;  in  thy  tiny  pond 

Find  ocean's  plenitude;  learn  all  the  lore 
Of  this  mysterious  earth ;  and  then  beyond, 

In  steadfast  lonely  meditation,  pore 
On  air-borne  secrets  hid  from  lamp-bleared  eyes 

And  only  legible  to  them  like  thee 
That  lead  their  lives  beneath  the  star-strewn  skies 

And  live  as  if  this  were  the  life  to  be. 
Still,  though  them  wert  so  lost  in  solitude, 
True  prophet  to  our  shackled  humanhood ! 


28 


TO  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 

To  that  choice  company  dost  thou  belong 
Of  kindred  spirits — Fielding,  rare  old   Ben, 
Bluff   Samuel,  good   Sir  Walter — manly  men 

Who  make  our  earth  the  gladder  for  their  song 

And  sturdy  pleasantry  when  things  go  wrong. 
(Such  sanely  optimistic  men  as  these 
Are  like  the  ozone-laden  ocean  breeze 

That  sweeps  the  foul-aired  tenements  among.)      . 

No  sudden-blazing  meteor  art  thou, 

Grudging  thy  sparkles  to  the  frore  gray  earth ; 
Rather  the  hearth-fire  bringing  warmth  and  mirth, 

Smoothing  its  furrows  from  the   care-knit  brow. 
Quaint  Maister  Chaucer,  perfect  though  thy  art, 
We  prize  far  more  thy  rugged  homely  heart. 


29 


AFTER  READING  CERTAIN  OLD  ENGLISH 
ROMANCES. 


I. 


I  love  to  read  these  tales  of  old  romance: 
How  Florice  fought  for  lovely  Blanchefleur, 
And  hewed  down  Ajoub's  son,  the  horrid  Moor, 
And  spitted  swarthy  Paynims  on  his  lance, 
Or  how  the  valorous  Guy  of  Warwick  bore 
At  his  Felice's  whimsical  command, 
His  shield  in  joust  and  tourney  for  her  hand 
Against  that  recreant  caitiff,  Morgadour, 
Or  how  Sir  Bevis,  brave  knight  of  Hamptoun, 
With  's  steed  Arundel  and  good  sword  Morglay, 
Bore  from  Sir  Miles  the  fair  Josyan  away, 
And  slaughtered  them  that  'lieved  on  false  Mahoun. 
Sure  these  were  men  right  worthy  of  our  praise — 
These  stalwart  heroes  of  the  ancient  davs. 


30 


AFTER  READING  CERTAIN  OLD  ENGLISH  ROMANCES. 

II. 

I  love,  I  say,  these  tales  of  olden  time, 

Crude  though  they  be  and  full  of  lust  and  blood, 

They  thrill  me  with  their  touch  of  knightlihood, 
Quaint  courtesy,  and  energy  sublime. 
Stern  though  they  seemed  and  full  of  fierce  despite, 

Yet  were  these  knights  possessed  of  virtues  tried. 

No  idle  dalliance,  no  weak  foolish  pride 
Stained  the  escutcheon  that  they  bore  of  right. 
Sometimes,  'tis  true,  they  struck  before  they  thought— 

But  yet  they  struck! — Ah  ye  who  weakly  cower 

In  feeble  vacillation,  seize  thy  hour! 
Think  how  they  strove — how  hardily  they  wrought, 

And  from  thy  torpor  rouse  for  very  shame, 

Lest  ve  be  branded  with  a  coward's  name. 


31 


HEATHER,   IVY,  AND  YEW. 

This  tiny  sprig  o'  heather  's  been 

Beside  the  banks  o'  Loch   Katrine, 

This  ivy-leaf  erewhile  hath  grown 

By  Burns's  Brig  o'  Bonnie  Doon, 

This  yew  funereal  o'er  the  grave 

Of  Wordsworth  drooped,  by  Rotha's  wave. 

One  tells  a  tale  of  bold  Romance, 
One  whispers  of  Love's  tender  glance, 
One  sighs  o'er  Death's  grim  residence. 

Each  guards  its  own  dark  mystery: 
Life,  Love,  or  future  Destiny. 


32 


KIPLING. 

"HYSTERICAL  RHAPSODIST  OF  FORCE" 

As  strives  some  vulgar  parvenu  to  win 
Station  among  his  nobler  fellow-kind 
By  clink  of  coin,  though  poor  in  spirit  and  mind, 
Even  so  doth  Kipling  strive  to  enter  in 
To  Art's  great  temple — to  that  hallowed  fane 
Wherein  true  poets  worship  the  high  Muse ;    . 
Utters  his  tinsel  phrase,  hurls  low  abuse, 
Tries  every  paltry  method.    But  disdain 
Doth  greet  each  clamorous  effort :  calm  and  still 
Those  priests  of  Beauty  bar  the  sacred  door 
And  chant  her  varied  praise,  and  him  ignore, 
Letting  him  plead  in  vain,  or  storm  at  will. 
No;  Kipling!  juggler  of  cheap  jingo  wit, 
That  shrine  is  shut:    thou  mav'st  not  enter  it! 


TO  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 
I. 

Glad  fellow-farer  through  the  wilds  of  life, 
Undaunted  heartener  of  the  weak  and  faint, 
Human  of  humans,  yet  without  a  taint 

Of  the  irreverence  that  is  now  so  rife ; 

Intrepid  wanderer  through  the  sunlit  lands 
Of  high  romance,  well-tried  adventurer, 
Hero  in  many  a  hard-fought  Holy  War 

'Gainst  gloom,  disease,  and  impotence  of  hands ; 

Chivalric  counsellor  in  youth's  brave  emprise, 

What  word  of  thine  but  cheers  us  toward  life's  goal, 
Kindling  in  us  the  same  indomitable  soul 

That  ever  smiled  from  thy  courageous  eyes? 
Loyal  and  lovable,  self-poised  and  free, 
O  gallant  R.  L.  S.,  our  gratitude  to  thee ! 


34 


TO  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


II. 


As  our  Bay  sea-gulls  o'er  the  windy  deep 

Skim  with  their  light  deft  touch  the  waters  dun 
And  ever  flash  quick  glints  of  the  bright  sun 

From  their  broad  wings  that  rhythmically  sweep, 

So,  Optimist,  amidst  the  buffeting 

Of  tortured  breast  and  racking  fever-pain, 
With  laugh  at  lip  and  quip  of  ready  brain, 

And  stalwart  faith,  did'st  face  Death's  reckoning. 

Not  as  the  fool,  with  venomed  scoff  and  sneer, — 
A  coward's  trick! — did'st  jest  at  his  grim  call, 
But  as  the  brave  man  fighting  till  he  fall — 

His  rapier  at  fence  'gainst  caitiff  fear. 

Wounds  in  the  front,  face  lifted  to  the  dawn, 
So  did'st  thou  fight  and  fall,  beloved  Stevenson ! 


35 


TO  AN  INCESSANT  READER. 

"Farewel  my  boke  and  my  devocioiin!'1'' — Chaucer. 

Down  with  thy  volume !    Calleth  the  blue  sea, 

And  the  green  wood,  and  the  crisp,  tingling  air; 

And,  best  of  all,  thy  love  inviteth  thee 

With  her  to  roam  amid  yon  prospect  fair. 

Down  with  thy  volume.  What  are  joys  of  books 

Beside  the  blisses  of  all  out-of-doors  ? 
Is  he  not  mad,  who,  shunning  ferny  nooks, 

In  some  close  room  o'er  printed  pages  pores  ? 

Dear  is  the  heritage  of  books,  I  wot, 

And  ministrant  to  many  holy  needs  ; 
But  must  for  them  life's  birthright  be  forgot 

Ere  yet  our  youth's  World  Beautiful  recedes? 

Best  poets'  loves  are  but  as  idle  dreams 

Save  as  they  mirror  thine  who  waiteth  thee, 
And  as  mere  phantoms  Arden's  groves  and  streams 

To  them  that  thou  mayst  with  thy  Ros'lind  see. 
* 
Go!  learn  from  Njature  what  books  ne'er  can  teach, 

And  from  thy  love  what  Nature  ne'er  revealed; 
That  is  true  wisdom.     Seek  it,  I  beseech, 

And  thy  new  lore  by  her  dear  lips  be  sealed ! 

36 


TIMES    AND    SEASONS 


'eAh,  yes,  it  is  a  goodly  thing 
(9ne  year  to  live,  one  song  to  sing. 


IN  PRAISE  OF  MISTRESS  SPRING. 

Hark  ye,  my  masters,  hear  me  sing 

My  rollicking  glee  to  Mistress  Spring- 

The  blithest,  breeziest,  mad-cap  thing 
We've  met  with  in  our  frolicking! 

Ay,  that  she  is,  but  more — she  s  rude ! 

Her  knuckles  rap  each  stinging  cheek. 
Her  biting  kisses  nip  the  blood, 

Her  fingers  our  red  noses  tweak. 

And  yet  she  is  a  humorous  lass, 
A  rare  good-natured  one,  I  ween  ; 

We  smile  and  turn  to  see  her  pass 

When  she  frisks  merrily  on  the  scene. 

In  brief,  sirs,  hers  is  woman's  mood, 

A  veritable  Protean  thing; 
Wooer  of  the  black  depths  o'  the  wood, 

Wooer  of  its  sun-flecked  burgeoning. 

Betimes  all  melancholy  wise, 

She  sheds  the  softest  tears  that  fall, 

And  shyly  with  her  pleading  eyes 
Entreats  your  pity  for  it  all. 

39 


IN  PRAISE  OF  MISTRESS  SPRING. 

Then  off  she  flits,  with  roguish  smile, 
Adown  some  leafless  woodland  lane ; 

And  you,  fond  dolt,  are  left  the  while 
Dripping  disconsolate  in  the  rain. 

Thus  all  compact  of  wind  and  sun, 
Thus  tearful  is  my  tricksy  jade — 

Tell  me,  my  masters,  know  you  one 
More  charming  than  this  elfish  maid? 

Flirt?    Ay,  you're  right.    Yet  I  opine 
She  's  worthy  well  your  worshiping. 

Come,  clink  me  your  glasses,  masters  mine- 
A  jolly  good  health  to  Mistress  Spring! 

She'll  brim  with  rare  red  wine  the  glass, 
Thrill  o'  new  life  and  laughter  bring. 

A  buxom,  heartsome,  generous  lass, 
I  warrant  ye — my  Mistress  Spring! 


40 


SPRING  SONG. 

O  the  beauty  of  the  Spring! 

Everything 
Feels  a  thrill  of  life  redundant, 

And  the  birds 
In  their  bursts  of  song  abundant 

Phrase  the  words 
Of  a  matchless  litany. 
Father,  we  would  also  praise  Thee 

For  the  Spring. 

O  the  beauty  of  the  Spring! 

Grief  took  wing 
At  the  sight  of  greening  grasses 

And  the  gold 
Of  the  hillside  poppy  masses, 

Which  unfold 
To  the  kisses  of  the  sun 
Even  as  our  hearts  have  done 

To  the  Spring. 


41 


SPRING    SONG. 

O   the  beauty   of  the   Spring 

Burgeoning! 
Hints  untold  of  life  eternal 

Here  abide 
In  these  clouds  of  incense  vernal 

Wafting  wide 
Their  delicate  perfume 
From  white  banks  of  orchard  bloom 

In   the   Spring. 

O  the  beauty  of  the  Spring ! 

It  doth  bring 
Vision    of  the  glorious  Being 

Who  doth  rule 
Men  and  seasons,  dreams  and  seeing. 

Is  there  fool 

Who  would  fail  to  thank  the  Father 
For   His  gift  of  gracious  weather 

Through    the   Spring? 


42 


EASTER    IN    ENGLAND. 

Red  poppies  burn  where  wintry  winds  blew  cold, 
O'er  the  calm  lake  the  swallows  dip  and  sing, 
The  air  is  fragrant  with  all  blossoming. 

And  scent  of  fresh-turned  earth  on  fertile  wold. 

The  naked  limbs  that  barred  the  bleak,  gray  sky, 
Like  gaunt  survivors  of  some  famine  scene, 
Thrust  forth  now  tender  shoots  of  vivid  green, 

And  in  their  new  warmth  comfortably  sigh. 

Hark!  how  the  lark  his  carol  merrily  trills, 
And  all  exultant  navigates  the  blue 
Vast  vault  of  space.     Our  souls,  do  they  not,  too, 

Aspire  even  unto  Heaven?    Through  them  it  thrills 
As  through  all  Nature,  this  one  trumpet  cry : 
"I  am  the  Life,  the  Resurrection,  I !" 


43 


MAYTIME. 

Mid-month  of  May. 

Fit  time  to  woo. 
A  perfect  day, 

Myself  and  yon. 

A  woodland  nook 
Where  we  two  sit, 

A  pleasant  book, 
You  reading  it. 

You  turn  a  page 
And  then  the  next 

But  I  am  sage — 
You  are  my  text. 

On  you  I  pore, 

O  poem   mine ! 
Con   o'er  and  o'er 

Each  dainty  line. 

I  watch  the  air 
Play  hide-and-seek, 

Kissing  your  hair, 
Flushing  your  cheek. 

44 


MAYTIME. 

Your  tapering'  arm 
So  white,  so  cool, 

And    every    charm 

Make  me   Love's  tool 

Soon  I  am  bent — 
In  vain  ! — to  look- 
On   eyes   intent 
Upon  their  book; 

Until  I'm  free 

No  more  to  wait. 
Love's  jealousy 

Drives  me  his  gait. 

I  seize  your  wrist 
The  book  falls  down, 

Your  lips  I've  kissed 
Despite  your  frown. 

I  kiss  again 

Your  glowing  face, 
(Ah  me!)  and  then 

You  I  embrace. 

My  arms  I've  wound 
About  your  waist, 

Your  hair's  unbound, 
Your  hat  misplaced. 

45 


MA  YTJMH. 

Meantime  the  book 

Unheeded   lies. 
Yon   deign   no  look — 
Love  dims  your  eyes ! 

Staid   Wisdom    flits, 
Distraught,    away, 

Sweet  Folly  sits 

Enthroned  this  day. 

Let  Learning  gray 
Keep  musty  schools, 

Mid-month  of  May 
Dan  Cupid  rules ! 

Yet   what   reck  we? 

Love  shall,  I  wis, 
Our  good  king  be: 

Sweetheart,  a  kiss ! 


ET   IN   ARCADIA   EGO. 

What  delight  with  you  to  be 
Here  alone  in  Arcady — 
Land  of  languorous  afternoon, 
Where  aerial  voices  croon- 
Lingering  in  this  hidden  nook, 
Listening  to  yon  rippling  brook 
And  the  leaves  and  rushes  sigh 
Their  low-whispered  lullaby 
To  us  who  idly  dream,  and  dream, 
By    the    slow    down-dropping    stream. 
Stretched  at   ease  upon  the   lawn 
Nibbling  cates  nectarean— 
Often  have  I  longed  to  be- 
Thus  with  you  in  Arcady ! 

Look,  dear,  is  that  Obcron 
Just   returned   from    Helicon, 
Or    is    it    tricksy    Ariel 
Tripping  down  yon  leafy  dell  ? 
Hzyk!  those  feet  that  nimbly  ran! 
Surely  that  was  jolly  Pan 
And  his  merry  Satyr  crew — 


47 


ET  IN  ARCADIA  EGO. 

Up  to  mischief,  doubtless,  too ! 
Dreaming  am  I?  Maybe  so 
(Tho'  'tis  difficult  to  know — 
This  dim  grove  of  ancient  oak 
Is  haunt  so  fit  for  faerie  folk !)  ; 
Dream  moods  are  no  rarity 
To  them  that  visit  Arcady ! 

Here  I  love  to  be,  dear  heart, 
With  you  from  all  the  world  apart 
(Sad  world,  with  its  pain  and  fret 
And  vain  endeavor  to  forget !)  ; 
Thro'  the  long,  long  summer  hours 
Weaving  wreaths  of  wildwood  flowers- 
Fern  and  fragrant  violet. 
With   the  morning  dew  still  wet. 
And  these  crimson  poppies  rare — 
For  your  wind-tossed,  shadowy  hair. 
Ah,  if  you  could  be  content 
In  Arden  groves  of  banishment 
Thus  to  linger,  dear,  with  me 
In  Love's  Land  of  Arcady ! 


48 


MIDSUMMER  IN  ENGLAND. 

Poppies  are  flaming  in  fields  of  rye, 

Scarlet  and  silver  together. 
A  tremulous  heat-haze  veils  the  sky: 

It  is  sultry  July  weather. 

In  a  nook  reclined,  where  the  cooling  wind 

Wafts  me  woodland  odors  sweet 
From  banks  of  thyme,  I  catch  the  chime 

Of  the  runlet  at  my  feet. 

The  rushes  tall  are  my  citadel, 

Whence  dreamily  I  spy 
On  the  garrulous  rooks  in  the  storm-riven  oaks 

And  the  red  deer  browsing  by. 

So  the  moments  pass  in  the  long  lush  grass 
And  the  night-stars  deck  the  sky. 

Till  dusk  from  dawn  I  linger  on 
In  this  mid-month  of  July. 

In  our  desperate  haste  o'er  the  arid  waste 

Our  feet  have  daily  trod, 
Often,   I  think,  we   forget  to  drink 

At  these  oases  of  God. 

49 


EXILED. 

My  heart  is  where  the  heather  blooms 

Afar  on  rough  Ben  Ledi's  side, 
'Tis    where    the    shaggy  Trossach  glooms 

Above  Loch  Katrine's  silvery  tide. 
A  wanderer  I  from  Scotia  far, 
Yet  home  and  heart  still  with  her  are. 

Her  bonnie  braes  I  yearn  to  see. 

Her  burns  that  bicker  'neath  the  sun ; 

Her  misty  islands  beckon  me, 

Her  birken  groves  and  bracken  dun ; 

Her  highlands  lure  me  from  afar. 

Her  vales  than  which  none  fairer  are. 

Her  golden   morns   and  purpling  eves, 
Her  brakes  of  fern  and  craggy  dens — 

Ah,  how  my  exiled  spirit  grieves 

Again  to  roam  those  shadowy  glens ! 

Whate'er   dread   weird    my   body    dooms, 

My  heart  is  where  the  heather  blooms. 


50 


"THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD." 

From  the  tumult  and  surge  of  the  market 

And  the  shifty  business  ways 
In  the  devious  paths  of  traffic 

Where  brother  on  brother  preys ; 

From  the  heated  glare  of  the  pavement 
And  the  foul  stench  of  the  stews, 

Where  to  live  is  death,  and  worse  than  death. 
And  to  win  is  ever  to  lose : 

I  turn  to  thy  wind-swept  spaces, 

O    Country   of   the   West! 
Hearing  the  call  of  thy  highlands 

With  the  white  snow  on  each  crest. 

All,  this  is  no  vagrant  yearning 
For  ease  and  idleness, 

No  coward  flight  from  the  clash  of  strife— 
This   hunger  for  things  that   bless: 

For  the  uplift  of  stately  mountains, 

Thick-set  with  fir  and  pine; 
For  the  keen  clean  air  of  the  cloudlands 

And  the  earth-tang  sweet  and  fine. 

51 


"T//H   CALL   OF    THE   WILD." 

A  call  to  the  heights  of  effort. 

And  renewal  of  brave  desires, — 
Ideals  long  stifled  and  smothered 

By  ashes  that  once  were  fires. 

Yes,  back  to  the  fresh  green  woodlands 

And  their  rivers  swift  and  wide, 
Where  the  heart  is  cleansed  and  strengthened 

And  the  spirit  purified ! 


52 


LOAFING. 

I  lie  outstretched  upon  the  grass 

And  watch  the  white  cloud-galleons  pass — 

Brave  argosies  that  proudly  sweep 

The  illimitable  blue  of  heaven's  deep. 

Around  me  hum  the  honey-bees 

Intent  upon  their  piracies 

Of  sweets  from  every  wayside  flo\ver — 

Rare  essences  of  sun  and  shower. 

In  the  tall  trees,  with  ravished  ear, 

The  wind  antiphonal  I  hear. 

And   from   his  airy   eyrie,   hark ! 

The  impromptu   melody  of  the   lark, 

And  the  uninterrupted  whir 

From  the  meadowland  of  the  harvester. 

And  all  my  other  senses  thrill 

With   the   life   joyous.      Lo,   the   rill 

How  it  doth  twinkle  where  the  light 

Falls  on  its  bubbling  waters  bright, 

And  see  the  glimmering  of  the  trees 

Their  green  leaves  tossed  by  the  gusty  breeze, 

And  watch   the   patterns  that  the  sun 

53 


LOAFING. 

Weaves  on  the  shadow-dappled  lawn. 

And,  ah !  the  scent  of  the  violet. 

The  honey-suckle,  and  wild-rose,  met 

In  one  waft  of  perfume   wondrous   sweet 

And  how  as  my  clasped  ringers  meet 

In    the    cool    lush    grasses    my    pulses    stir, 

And  on  my  cheek  how  warm  -the  air ! 

O  the  joy  of  living!     Glorious  boon 
When  one  may  lie  in  the  fields  at  noon. 
And  loaf  away  the  hours  until 
The  night  is  come,  at  his  own  sweet  will ! 


B4 


ON  HILLS  OF  PINE. 

In  this  sequestered  nook ' 

Spic}^  azaleas  blow, 
Beside   this   roistering  brook 

The  red-ripe  berries  glow, — 
Here  through  the  stately  trees 

That  sigh  in  coy  delight 
Soft  steals  the  wooing  breeze, 

Caressing  in  its  flight. 
Tall  pillared  aisles  of  pines 

In  lengthening  lines  extend, 
Embraced   by  tendriled   vines 

That,   tenuous,   coil   and   blend 
Fantastic  tangled  arms 

With  boles  columnar,  vast, 
Shielding  their  delicate  charms 

From  the  storm  king's  blast. 
From  the  glimmering  glades 

Fails  the  golden  light. 
Darker  fall  the  shades 

Of  the  hastening  night ; 
From  the   mountains  hoar 


ON  HILLS  OP  PINE. 

The  colors   fade  and   die 
As  the  sun  drops  lower 

Down  the  western  sky. 
From  the  ravine  a  cadence 

Silvery  clear,  yet  low, 
Like  a  song  of  maidens — 

"Tis   the   river's   flow. 
Fit  place  this  for  dreams, 

By  tranquil  peace  possessed, 
Fit  time  for  starry  gleams 

Or  calm  communion  blest. 


"THALATTA!" 

Ah,  the  sea,  the  sea! 

It  is  there  I'd  be 
AY  here  the  black  storm-clouds  are  scowling, 

And  the  great  waves  rave 

In  each  hollow  cave. 
And  the  gale  is  madly  howling. 

It   is  good   to   lie 

'Neath  an  azure  sky 
In  a  meadow-land  of  the  valleys, 

Or  on  beds  of  fern 

By   some   mountain  burn 
That  bickers  and  frets  and  dallies. 

But  't  is  best  to  be 

By  the  glorious  sea 
And  hear  its  thundering  surges 

That  sweep  and  crash 

On  the  sands  and  dash 
In   foam  where  the  cliff  emerges. 


57 


NEAR  MONTEREY. 

Cold,  black  rocks  in  the  gray  of  evening. 
Great  waves  breaking  in  clouds  of  spray ; 

Out   from  the  heart  of  the  crimson  sunset 
A  lone  gull  winging  its  landward  way. 

Side  by  side  on  our  cairn  together 
We  two  there  in  the  waning  light : 

Before   us  the  turbulent  ocean   reaches, 
Behind  us  the  sand  dunes,  still  and  white. 

In  a  niche  of  the  cliff  we  linger,  silent. 

Swiftly  the  curtains  of  night  are  drawn. 
And  the  rough,  salt  breeze  beats  in  our  faces,— 

Yet  we  watch  the  billows  tossing  on. 

Is  it  a  dream  that  I  remember. 

Or  ghost  of  some  joy  that  shall  be  no  more ; 
You  and  I  on  the  beach  together — 

Dusk — and  the  darkening  ocean  shore? 


58 


AUTUMN  WALK  IN  CALIFORNIA. 


Morning. 

The  country  road,  dew-moistened,  stretches  on 
Past  scattered  farms  that  hushed  and  lifeless  lie. 
Faded  and  bleak  is  the  gray  morning  sky- 
Then  sudden  in  the  east  the  flush  of  dawn. 

From  every     chimney     now     blue     smoke-wreaths 

come ; 

Ruddy  and  fresh  the  farmer-lads  appear, 
And  enter  on  their  tasks  with  ready  cheer. 

And  everywhere  is  heard  life's  busy  hum. 

Chickens  are  cackling  for  their  'customed  grain, 
Horses  are  whinnying,  eager  to  be  fed, 
The  lowing  cattle  stampede  from  the  shed, 

A  hare  leaps  up  and  scurries  down  the  lane. 

,    Better  the  dawn  than  beat  of  wakening  drums : 
All  life  is  quickened  when  the  glad  sun  comes. 


.  AUTUMN  \VALK  IN   CALIFORNIA. 

II. 
Noon. 

Dusty  and  hot  the  road  still  stretches  on 
Indefinite  to  distant  woodland  ways ; 
O'er  all  the  landscape  lies  a  tremulous  haze ; 

Remorselessly  beats  down  the  noonday  sun. 

Thirsty  and  faint,  imagination  sees 

Mirages  all-alluring.     The  heart  thrills 
To  be  once  more  among  the  shadowy  hills, 

And  quaff  the  coolness  of  the  sheltering  trees. 

Vain  is  the  vision  memory  fondly  yields. 
The  locust  drowses  out  his  droning  whir, 
The  far-off  hills  become  a  misty  blur, 

The  hot  sun  shimmers  on  the  stubble  fields ; 
Even  the  crow  has  hushed  his  noisy  caws. 

'Tis  Nature's  breathing  space — the  world's  at  pause. 


AUTUMN    WALK    IN    CALIFORNIA. 

III. 
Night. 
The  white  road  glimmers,  faintly  stretching  on, 

Then  fades  into  the  dusk.    The  crescent  moon 

Sinks  slowly,  and  all  nature  seems  aswoon, 
Exhausted  by  the  irksome  day  just  gone. 
The  blackness  grows  intenser  hour  by  hour, 

Its  silence  all  unbroken  by  a  sound, 
Except  the  mournful  howling  of  some  hound. 
It  is  the  time  when  lonely  thoughts  o'er-power. 
Hushed  are  the  fields  at  dawn  athrill  with  song. 

When  life  exulted  under  morning  skies ; 

Only  the  ghostly  eucalyptus   sighs. 
And,  as  we  stumble  wearily  along, 

A  light  from  each  farm  window  dimly  glows: 

The  tired  world  is  seeking  its  repose. 


61 


THE  GOLDEN-ROD. 

The  hills  are  hidden  by  a  haze, 
The  veil  of  Indian  summer  days, 
And  every  harvest  furrow  hath 
The  green  of  autumn  aftermath — 
A  vivid   setting  fresh   from    God 
To  fitly  frame  the  golden-rod. 

The  autumn  air  is  mild  and  warm, 
And  honey  bees,  a  droning  swarm, 
Swift  as  the  arrow  from  the  bow 
Speed  with  their  burdens  to  and  fro 
From  many  a  dragon-lily  pod 
And  tuft  of  fragrant  golden-rod. 

The  light  that  ripples  through  the  leaves 
Upon  the  velvet  greensward  weaves 
A  rare  design  of  shade  and  sun 
That  alters  ere  'tis  scarce  begun, 
And   gilds   refined   gold   where   nod 
The  tall  plumes  of  the  golden-rod. 


62 


THE  GOLDEN-ROD. 

The  scarlet  maples  flash  and  flame, 
The  purple  asters  put  to  shame 
The  painter's  most  resplendent    hue. 
The  gentians  vie  with  heaven's  blue, 
And  every  foot  of  upland  sod 
Is  radiant  with  the  golden-rod. 

I  love  to  lie  and  take  mine  ease 
Beneath  these  branching  woodland  trees, 
Where  fancy  doth  not  strive  in  vain 
To  find  the  Golden  Age  again, 
For  foot   ne'er  fairer   country   trod 
Than  this  where  grows  the  golden-rod. 


THANKSGIVING. 

We  thank,   Thee,   Lord,   for  all   Thou  hast 

Of   blessing   to   us   given, 
For  precious  memories  of  the  past 

And  gracious  hopes  of  heaven ; 

We  thank  Thee  for  our  Nation's  peace 

Employed  for  righteous  ends, 
For  fireside  comforts  that  increase — 

Home-ties,  and  books,  and  friends ; 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  prospering 

Of  our  material  store. 
But  for  our  spirit's  strengthening, 

Dear  Lord,  we  thank  Thee  more: 

For  patience  in  the  midst  of  pain, 
And  trust  through  test  of  tears, 

For  faith  thy  Face  shall  smile  again 
In  thine  own  year  of  years; 

And  most  of  all  for  Thy  stern  laws 

That  spur  to  high  endeavor — 
Those  inward  goads  that  give  no  pause, 

But  urge  us  upward  ever. 


64 


THANKSGIVING. 

That  whatso'er  the  heights  we've  gained 

We  hold  them  in  derision, 
Still  striving  for  the  unattained— 

The  splendor  of  the  Vision ! 

For  thwarted  efforts,  baffled  will, 
Vain  schemes  of  our  decreeing, 

The  reason  for  whose  failure  still 
Evades  our  finite  seeing. 


BENEDICITE. 

Bless  thou  the  Lord,  my  heart,  and  bring 
To  Him  thy  grateful  worshiping 

On   this   Thanksgiving   Day. 
For  He  hath  led  thee  through  the  year, 
And  momently  hath  made  appear 
His  love  and  care  for  thee  more  clear. 

Bless  thou  thy  Lord. 

Thank  thou  the  Lord,  my  heart,  and  give 
Him  all  thy  powers  while  thou  dost  live — 

Yes,  gladly,  every  day. 
So  shalt  thou  keep  serene  nor  be 
Fearful  of  aught  that  happeneth  thee. 
But  each  hour  further  reason  see 

To  thank  thy  Lord. 

Praise  thou  the  Lord,  my  heart,  and  sing 
His  love  past  all   imagining 

In  all  things  to  thy  good. 
For  all  things,  heart,  He  ordereth : 
Desired  Life  or  dreaded  Death — 
Strength  to  face  both  He  fnrnisheth. 

Praise  thou  thy  Lord. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

The  stars  are  keenly  glittering, 

The  moon   is  riding  high, 
The  wind  is  softly  shepherding 

Cloud-flocks  across  the  sky, 
The  snowy  fields  are  glimmering  bright: 
Beneath  the  moonbeam's  frosty  light. 

It  is  the  holy  night  whereon 
The  Prince  of  Peace  was  born. 

The  night  when  darkness  turned  to  dawn, 
When  midnight  was  as  morn, 

And  Heaven's  own  glory  was  revealed 

To  shepherds  watching  in  the  field. 

It  is  the  night  the  Magi  came 

From  Orient  lands  afar 
To  do  obeisance  to  his  name 

Led   by   the   wondrous    Star, 
And  precious  gifts  of  gold  and  myrrh 
And  frankincense  on  him  confer. 


67 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

O  Lord,  if  but  to  our  dim  eyes, 

Purblind  because  of  sin, 
A  vision   such   as  theirs   might   rise 

And  stir  our  hearts  within ! 
Might  we  but  such  a  portent  see, 
Perchance  we,  too,  should  worship  thee. 

Yea,  give  us,  Lord,  the  guiding  star 

To  find  the  Holy  Child, 
And  we,  weak  mortals  as  we  are, 

And  sinful  and  defiled, 
Will  follow  fain  the  heavenly  light 
That  shone  on  that  first  Christmas  night, 

The  stars  are  keenly  glittering, 

The  moon  is  riding  high, 
The  wind  is  softly  shepherding 

Cloud-flocks  across  the  sky. 
And  hark!    those  voices  from  afar! 
And  lo!  within  my  breast  a  star! 


68 


THE  STAR. 

The  Wise  Men  saw  a  thousand  stars 

Effulgent  over  them, 
But  fixed  their  eyes  on  one:  the  Slar 

Of  Bethlehem. 

A  thousand  bright  and  shining  names 

The  skies  of  history  gem, 
But  wise  men  fix  on  one:     the  Christ's 

Of  Bethlehem. 


69 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  RED  ROSE 


11  For  love  is  heaven's  very  atmosphere" 

— Cftavid  Starr  Jordan. 


THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE. 

l^Love  is  the  only  synonym  in  our  earthly  speech  for  immortality.^ 

'Tis  Love  alone  can  make  life's  work  complete. 
Ere  long  shall  come  the  setting  of  the  sun 
And  this  brief  day  of  our  great  task  be  done 

(Ah,  task  of  life,  how  strangely  bitter-sweet!). 
There  will  be  folded  hands,  lips  without  breath, 
But  we  shall  have  passed  on — Love  knows  no  death! 


73 


A  COMPLEYNT  TO  CUPID. 

Cupid,  thou  cruel  elf, 

And  all  unjust, 
Why  hast  thou  sorely  wounded  thus  myself 

That  now  I  must 

Feel  in  my  breast  the  rankle  of  thy  dart, 
Although  thou  dost  not     deign     to  pierce  my  Lady's 
heart  ? 

Cupid,  thou  art  unfair 

To  me,  to  her, 
That  all  unfeeling  she  's  thus  made  to  bear — 

No  pulse  astir — 

The  mad  infatuation  of  my  heart, 
But  I  her  high  disdain,  though  wounded  by  thy  dart ! 

Nay,  Cupid,  be  more  kind 

To  both,  I  pray; 
That  sting  which  in  my  heart  doth  lodgment  find 

Or  pluck  away, 

Or  else  within  my  Lady's  breast  thy  dart 
Implant,  that -she  may  likewise  feel    Love's     rankling 
smart! 

74 


MY  VALENTINE. 

The  day  's  at  hand  yclept  St.  Valentine's, 
When  every  lover  to  his  lady  pays 
Some  tribute  of  true  love,  and  in  her  praise 
Strives  to  indite  some  well-beseeming  lines. 
But  what  is  worthy  of  my  Lady  dear  ? 
Words  cannot  tell  her  tenderness  and  grace, 
Nor  the  sweet  beauty  of  her  winsome  face, 
Nor  have  I  aught  that  she  would  prize,  I  fear — 
She  unto  whom  the  whole  world  well  might  kneel 
In  worship  of  the  charms  she  doth  reveal ! 
And  yet,  some  token  I  would  fain  confer. 
My  heart's  my  all !    It  will  I  send  to  her 
And  bid  her  keep  it  as  her  Valentine. 
Ah,  would  that  she  might  send  me  hers  in  interchange 
for  mine ! 


75 


WITH  A  GIFT  OF  ROSES. 

With  a  red  red  rose  in  her  shadowy  hair, 
And  her  rose-red  mouth  and  her  features  fair, 
And  her  precious  eyes  and  her  peerless  grace, 
I  would  I  might  gaze  on  my  Lady's  face. 
And  so  for  her  I  am  thinking  of 
In  the  red,  red  leaves  of  this  rose  of  love 
(May  her  love  be  my  whole  life's  comforter!) 
I  have  folded  my  heart  and  I  send  it  her. 
Ah,  would  that  mine  were  the  right  to  insist 
That  she  wear  it  in  token  of  true-love  tryst 
In  her  beautiful  hair  when  tonight  we  meet, 
That  so  I  might  claim  her  my  own,  my  sweet ! 


76 


LOVE'S  PLEA. 

Beloved,  though  you  love  not  me  at  all, 
Who  am  not  worthy  of  your  tenderness, 
Nor  aught  deserving  of  your  least  caress. 

Think !     It  is  Love,  not  I,  unto  you  call. 

And  if  not  me,  you  must  learn  to  love  Love, 
For  Love's  life's  all,  and  if  it  pleading  come 
Entreating   in  your  heart  its  proper  home, 

Will  you  rebuff  it,  scourge  it  forth  to  rove? 

Remember,  though  the  lover  uplifts  on  high 
In  worship  her  pure  soul  his  heart  holds  dear 
(As  is  most  fit),  yet  he  himself  dwells  near 

That  shrine,  and  is  the  holier  made  thereby. 
To  love  uplifts  even  as  beloved  to  be ; 
Then  love  not  me,  Beloved,  but  love  my  love  for 
thee! 


77 


INCERTITUDE. 

Naught  know  I  of  those  facile  sophistries 
Whereby  men  heal  love's  unrequited  smart 
And  banish  true  affection  from  the  heart, 

Nor  would  I  learn  their  paltry  remedies. 

This  do  I  know :    my  Love  I  sought  to  win 
Not  by  false  vows  and  fickle  gallantry, 
Appealing  to  my  Lady's  vanity, 

But  in  good  faith  her  heart  would  enter  in. 

Yet  she  hath  told  me  with  all  seriousness, 
And  not  (I  thank  her!)  with  sly  flatteries, 
Luring  me  on  by  subtle  coquetries, 

My  suit  hath  not  yet  won  its  wished  success. 

And  so  I  know  not  what  to  do  at  all. 

My  love  remains, — it  burns  my  breast  like  fire  !- 
And  yet  she  will  not  yield  to  my  desire 

Although  she  knows  what  torments  me  befall. 
Still  I  can  blame  her  not — but,  oh,  that  she 
May  prove  compassionate  to  my  misery ! 


78 


FOR  MY  LADY'S  BIRTHDAY. 

This  spray  of  waxen  lilies 

Dear  heart,  accept  from  me, 
They  are  so  fair  and  stainless  that 

They  mind  me,  dear,  of  thee. 

And  hyacinths  I  send  you, 

Still  wet  with  morning  dew, 
They  have  not  half  the  sweetness, 

My  own  sweetheart,  of  you. 

Nor  shun  these  crimson  roses 

With  petals  all  aflame, 
Love  must  be  something  more  than  sweet 

Else  is  it  but  a  name. 

Take,  too,  these  tiny  violets, 

Sky-azure  in  their  hue, 
To  tell  the  single-heartedness, 

Love,  of  my  love  for  you. 

And  lastly  these  carnations. 

They  do  not  wither  fast, 
But  typify  true  constancy: 

Best  love  is  love  to  last! 


79 


WON'T  YOU  BE  MY  COMRADE? 

Dear,  I'd  call  you  comrade 

If  you  were  my  wife, 
Cheering  me  and  dearing  me 

Down  the  ways  of  life; 

Holding  me  and  folding  me 
When  the  days  were  gray, 

Nesting  me  and  jesting  me 

When  emerald  bloomed  the  May 

M]eeting  me  and  greeting  me 
When  I  came  at  night, 

Kissing  me  and  missing  me 
At  the  morning  light. 

Ever  in  good  fellowship 

We  should  fare  together; 
Fearless,  front  with  frolic  hearts 
Glad  or  gusty  weather. 

For  my  chum  through  all  my  life, 
Love,  I  choose  but  you : 

Won't  you  be  my  comrade, 
Trusty,  stanch,  and  true? 

80 


TWO  SONNETS. 
I. 

MY    LADY    BEAUTIFUL. 

My  Lady  whom  I  love  is  very  fair. 

God  in  his  goodness  made  her  to  the  sight 

Beyond  all  language  beautiful.    Her  white 

White  brow  lies  calm  beneath  her  wind-blown  hair 

Which  ever  in  dusk  masses  teasingly, 

In  tempting  disarray,  strays  o'er  a  face 

Fairer  than  painter's  vision  in  its  trace 

Of  winsome  tenderness  and  purity. 

Her  body,  too,  hath  beauties  manifold. 

Stately  God  wrought  it  with  divinest  art, 

Yet  grace  and  graciousness  he  did  impart. 

Ah,  yes ;  my  Lady  's  lovely  to  behold ! 

And  yet  these  charms  that  set  my  pulse  astir 

Seem  naught  beside  the  clean,  sweet  heart  of  her ! 


81 


TWO  SONNETS. 
II. 

MY    LADY    BOUNTIFUL. 

My  Lady  is  as  good  as  she  is  fair. 

Immaculate  as  Virtue's  self  is  she, 

Yet  warm  of  heart  and  rich  in  sympathy, 

Pity  and  kindliness  her  constant  care. 

Honor  and  Truth  attend  her  everywhere 

As  her  handmaidens,  and  sincerity 

And  gracious  speech  and  cheerful  industry 

Thrill  with  their  sweetness  the  environing  air. 

Trust  hath  she,  too,  in  God's  strong  hand  to  guide 

With  loving-kindness  the  affairs  of  men, 

And  Prayer  is  hers  to  One  beyond  our  ken, 

And  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Peace  with  her  abide. 

True  Vestal  she,  yet  Woman  every  whit. 

Love's  flame  hath  stirred! — oh,  may  she  cherish  it! 


82 


AN  OLDEN  TALE. 

The  birds  are  singing, 
The  bees  are  winging, 
And  honey  bringing 

From  flower  to  hive 
The  sun  is  beaming, 
The   lake   is   gleaming, 
And  good  'tis  seeming 

To  be  alive. 

Upon  the  masses 
Of  meadow  grasses 
Where  the  brook  passes 

Murmuring  clear, 
We  two  are  lying 
No  word  replying 
But  my  Love's  sighing 

Is  sweet  to  hear. 

Nor  sad  nor  merry, 
Idly   we   tarry, 
While  chipmunks  wary 
Scurry  around; 

83 


AN  OLDEN  TALE. 

Lost  in  day-dreaming 
Love  only  esteeming 
And  as  is  seeming 

Making  no  sound. 

Life's  fret  is  over, 
Heart  heart  may  discover, 
A  maid  and  her  lover 

Vow  to  be  true, 
Here  is  no  glory 
Save  only  the  hoary 
Age-olden  story 

Of  Love  told  anew. 


84 


MY  LADY'S  GARDEN. 

My  Lady  had  a  garden  in  her  heart 
Full  of  tall  lilies  pale  and  virginal, 
And  roses  white  with  waxen  petals  all, 

Which  only  a  faint  perfume  did  impart. 

Peaceful  and  still  slept  that  dim  garden-close, 
Unknown  to  men  by  gaudier  fancies  led, 
Mystic,  enchanted,  hushed,  unvisited, 

Until  one  day  I  chanced  it  to  disclose. 

Led  by  the  lily-bells  that  topped  the  wall, 
Their  stainless  chalices  lifted  to  the  sun, 
And  the  faint  garden-scent,  like  as  when  one 

Feels  a  loved  hand  on  his  hot  forehead  fall. 

I  entered  that  sequestered  nook  with  awe, 
That  nook  till  then  to  maiden  fancies  given, 
And  turned  my  tired   eyes  to  the  pure  blue 
heaven, 

And  breathed  a  prayer  of  thanks  for  what  I  saw : 


85 


MY  LADY'S  GARDEN. 

A  plot  so  lovely  that  my  soul  did  thrill, 

Even  though  virgin-white  slept  every  rose. 
Then  while  I  gazed,  lo !  all  the  garden-close 

Reddened  with  roseate  blushes,  lovelier  still! 

No  longer  now  doth  that  sweet  garden-close 
Sleep  in  seclusion,  white,     and     hushed,     and 

calm, 
But  far  and  wide  it  wafts  an  odorous  balm, 

And  everywhere  Love's  red,  red  rosebud  blows ! 


86 


MY  COMRADE. 

I  do  possess  a  constant  comrade  now, 

My  spirit's  comforter, 
My  heart  her  its  true  keeper  doth  avow, 

Worship  and  follow  her. 

I  never  stroll  at  dawn  through  greening  fields 

But  my  Love  walks  with  me, 
No  honeyed  scent  the  dew-wet  clover  yields 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  she. 

I  never  gird  myself  unto  the  task 

Of  the  hard  work-a-day 
But  in  the  solace  of  her  smile  I  bask, 

And  drudgery  is  play. 

I  never  sit  at  dusk  to  write  a  line 

But  that  my  Love  is  there, 
Her  hand  I  feel  caressingly  in  mine, 

Or  stroke  her  dear,  dear  hair. 

Morning  and  noon  and  afternoon  and  night, 

My  Beautiful  is  near, 
A  heaven-sent  minister  to  my  heart's  delight, 

An  angel-guardian  dear. 

87 


MY  COMRADE. 

With  the  calm  presence  of  her  spirit  fail- 
Life's  fret  and  fever  cease. 

God  keep  thee  near  me,  dearest,  everywhere, 
For  where  thou  art  is  peace ! 


88 


THE  SONG. 

What  shall  it  be,  sweetheart,  what  shall  it  be, 
That  I  shall  sing,  O  my  loved  one,  of  thee  ? 
Shall  it  be  praise  of  thy  beauty  so  fine 
Thrilling  me  through  like  the  rarest  of  wine ; 
Shall  it  be  praise  unto  Him  who  hath  given 
Thee  purity  like  to  the  angels  of  heaven; 
Shall  it  be  joy  in  thine  infinite  charm 
From  the  tone  of  thy  voice  to  the  curve  of  thine  arm, 
Shall  it  be  homage  to  all  that  thou  art, 
O  ministrant  hand,  O  compassionate  heart 
What  shall  it  be,  sweetheart,  what  shall  it  be? 
Nay,  this  be  my  theme :     She  loves  me,  she  loves  me ! 
Echo  it,  echo  it,  winds  of  the  sky- 
She  hath  named  me  her  choice.     It  is  I,  it  is  I ! 


89 


THE  SILENCES  OF  LOVE. 

Love  ever  deals  in  subtle  indirection 

For  fear  its  sweet 
And  vagrant  hints  of  delicate  suggestion 

Their  death  should  meet. 

It  needs  no  iteration  oft  outspoken 

In  formal  phrase: 
Vows  made  too  ardently  are  often  broken 

In  after  days. 

Yet  love  hath  means  of  proving  mystic  union 

Apart  from  speech, 
And  heart  with  heart  may  hold  a  rapt  communion 

Though  wordless  each. 

Fond  looks   from   fond  eyes  or  warm  hands'  tender 
pressure 

May  tell  the  whole, 
And  bear  delight  beyond  all  earthly  measure 

From  soul  to  soul. 


90 


THE  SILENCES  OP  LOVH. 

Silence  except  for  red  lips'  low  sweet  sighing 

Reveal  as  well 
The  vast  content  of  faith  on  faith  relying 

As  voice  could  tell. 

Nay,  Love  hath  moments  of  such  hallowed  passion 

When  speechless  'tis 
That  converse  were  all  impotent  to  fashion 

Gladness  like  this. 

And  so  when  oft  I  sit  in  voiceless  rapture 

Beside  you,  dear, 
Know  I  keep  silent  angel  strains  to  capture, 

For  heaven's  near ! 


91 


A  LITTLE  LYRIC. 

Ah,  the  old  world  is  so  wondrous  fair! 
Violets,  hyacinths,  everywhere 
Breathe  fragrance  on  the  April  air, 

And  the  daffodils  flame  at  my  feet ; 
Fountains  laugh  in  their  silvery  flow, 
Winds  in  the  tree-top  whisper  low, 
And  the  wild  birds  never  caroled  so — 

For  I  love,  and  the  world  is  sweet ! 

Grief  that  was  mine  with  its  rankling  sting, 
Life's  chafe  and  fretful  murmuring, 
Failure  and  pain  and  everything 

That  leaves  us  incomplete, 
Have  fled  and  the  skies  o'er-head  are  blue, 
Life  is  fair  and  men  are  true, 
And  all,  dear  heart,  because  I've  found  you — 

For  I  love,  and  the  world  is  sweet ! 


92 


SOMETIMES  YOUR  EYES  ARE  VERY 
WISTFUL,  DEAR. 

I. 

Sometimes  your  eyes  are  very  wistful,  dear, 
As  if  you  felt  a  yearning  in  your  heart — 
A  yearning  that  doth  make  the  quick  tears  start 

And  bear  you  far  away  from  Now  and  Here. 

Sweet,  is  it  girlhood  memories  that  you  keep 
Cherishing  them  still  faintly  in  your  breast  ? 
Or  is  it  dream  of  some  enthralling  quest — 

Some  high  emprise  in  Art — not  lulled  asleep? 

Or  some  dim-stirring  fancy,  sweet  and  pure, 
Like  scent  of  rosemary  or  old  lavender, 
Always  to  live  a  maiden  life,  nor  bear 

The  name  of  Wife  nor  Mother-pangs  endure? 

What  wistful,  vague  desire  your  heart  doth  move? 

Nav,  dear,  'tis  this:  You  yearn — you  yearn — to  love! 


93 


SOMETIMES  YOUR  EYES  ARE  VERY  WISTFUL,  DEAR. 

II. 

For  never  shall  a  woman's  heart  be  glad 
Until  she  holds  within  herself  the  key 
To  all  life's  wonder  and  felicity — 

Until  the  peerless  Rose  of  Love  is  had. 

For  this  give  all,  dear!  It  alone  is  worth 

A  woman's  life.     For  this  to  lay  life  down — 
Give  utterly  herself  and  her  life's  crown — 

She  glories :  'tis  her  one  delight  on  earth. 

Living  to  be  beloved  is  well,  but  all 
'  The  calm  delight  of  being  loved  doth  move 
How  infinitely  less  than  this — to  love! 

To  heed  the  wondrous  though  irrational  call — 
Miraculously  sweet ! — and  yield  outright, 
All  unreluctant,  as  Love's  acolvte. 


94 


CONSUMMATION. 

Dearest,  I  wandered  long  before  I  found 
Thee  who  in  happy  visions  of  the  night 
Often  in  dreams  thrilled  my  prophetic  sight, 

Long,  long  before  my  life  by  thee  was  crowned. 

Look  in  mine  eyes,  Beloved !  Is  it  true, 
I  ask  myself,  that  I  enfold  thee  now 
And  stroke  thy  dear  hair  from  thy  peerless  brow  — 

Thine,  Love,  for  whom  I  searched  the  wide  world 
through  ? 

Glad  consummation  of  my  heart's  desire, 
I  do  hold  thee  at  last  and  strain  thee  close 
And  kiss  thee.  Sweet !    At  last  my  tired  heart  knows 

Thee  for  its  own!  Earth  hath  no  rapture  higher: 
To  share  with  one  beloved  life's  smiles  and  tears 
Through  all  the  long  procession  of  the  years. 


95 


WONDERLAND. 

The  buttercups  are  bursting  into  blossom, 
As  yellow  as  the  sunlight  do  they  flare, 

And  violets  uplifting  their  blue  petals 

Are  thrilling  with  their  scent  the  balmy  air. 

The  flowers,  dear,  their  queen  demand : 

Come,  for  the  world  is  wonderland. 

Above  us  bends  a  calm  and  cloudless  azure, 
Beneath  us  rolls  a  sea  of  emerald  bloom, 

The  birds  with  merry  love-notes  chant  in  chorus, 
And  orchards  pink  with  blossom    breathe  perfume. 

Let  us  not,  love,  from  bliss  be  banned : 

Come,  for  the  world  is  wonderland. 

The  honey-bees  are  humming  in  the  clover, 
The  blue-birds  dart  and  dip  on  tireless  wing, 

The  meadow-larks  are  soaring  up  to  heaven, — 
Ah,  earth's  a  matchless  dream  in  early  Spring. 

Dearest,  with  me  hand  in  hand, 

Come,  for  the  world  is  wonderland. 


96 


A   MEMORY. 

We  glide  along  the  still  lagoon 

And  hear  the  vast  orchestral  strain, — 

Tannhauser's  prelude;  loud  the  tune, 
Then  lost  in  mists  of  pain. 

Above  us  shines  the  transfiguring  moon. 
Dreaming  we  sit,  nor  speak  again. 

The  gondoliers  row  silently 
Adown  the  starlit  water  ways, 

A  myriad  lights  flash  glitteringly 
Wherever  we  direct  our  gaze, 

But  she  is  outlined  duskily— 

A  shade! — while  faint  the  music  plays. 

It  voices  yearning  beyond  speech — 
The  Pilgrim  Chorus's  refrain! — 

Our  hearts  it  fetters  each  to  each, 
That  mystical  orchestral  strain ; 

And  hand  seeks  hand  as  if  to  reach 
Love's  peace  through  all  life's  pain. 


97 


GOOD-BY ! 

Heart  of  me,  I  love  you, 
And,  heart  of  me,  I  pray 
God  may  take  in  His  care 

Safely  on  your  way. 
May  He  bring  you  happily 

Home  unto  your  own. 
Dear,  how  I  shall  long  for  you, 

Left  behind  alone! 

May  He  guide  you  graciously 

By  His  kind  decrees, 
May  He  lead  you  pleasantly 

Into  paths  of  peace. 
I  would  have  Him  keep  you 

All  the  coming  year, 
Whereso'er  you  chance  to  be — 

This  my  prayer,  dear ! 

Heart  of  me,  I  love  you, 
And  heart  of  me,  I  pray 

He  may  give  you  back  to  me 
Safely  some  glad  day. 

98 


GOOD-BY! 

He  who  knows  the  need  of  love 
Will  not  my  need  deny ; 

God  be  with  yon  everywhere, 
Dear,  is  my  "good-by" ! 


A  MIDNIGHT  GREETING. 

My  lady  resteth  sweetly  at  this  hour, 

Wrapped   in   the   hushed   oblivion   of   sleep, 
While  angel  guardians  tireless  vigil  keep 

To  comfort  her  with  happy  dreams  for  dower. 

Peace  now  is  hers,  my  own  tired  lady's  dear. 
Worn  by  long  toil  and  days  devoid  of  rest 
And  hard  heart-struggles,  she  at  last  is  blest 

With  sweet  and  calm  repose  far,  far  from  here. 

Go,  little  song,  speed  swiftly  on  light  wing 
To  the  white  bed  whereon  my  love  doth 'lie, 
And  softly,  softly,  whisper  her  that  I, 

Far  in  the  West,  forgetting  everything 

Save  her  dear  self,  thus  send  my  love  to  her. 
Go,  little  song,  and  may  she  smile  and  stir ! 


100 


WITH  A  WILD  ROSE  FOR  ''ROSALIND.' 

Dainty  wild-rose,  go  to  her — 
Fragile  flower  and  very  fair — 

Yet  I  dare,  my  rose,  aver 
You  will  find  a  fairer  there. 

No  wild  flower  is  fragranter 

In  the  woodland  anywhere, 
Yet  what  sweetness  you  confer 

May  not  with  my  Sweet  compare. 

Your  petals,  delicate-tinted,  stir 

Memories  of  all  things  rare 
And  lovely,  yet  far  lovelier 

Mem'ries  of  her  my  heart  doth  wear. 

Go,  little  wild-rose  unto  her, 
And  my  love  to  my  true  love  bear, 

Dainty  are  you,  yet  daintier 

Mv  Rosalind  you'll  find,  I  swear. 


101 


GEMMA   GEM M ARUM. 
I. 

She  doth  not'wear  rich  ornaments,  my  love, 
As  nearly  every  other  woman  doth, 
Only  a  crimson  rosebud,  nothing  loath, 

Nestles  her  purely-beating  heart  above. 

No  glittering  rings,  nor  brooch,  nor  treasure  trove 
Of  flashing  diamonds  in  her  soft  brown  hair, 
One  only   rose  with  odor   sweet  and   rare 

Adorns  the  tresses  of  my  own  true  love. 

Simple  she  is  and  ever  simply  dressed, 
Not  gaudily  attired  in  vestments  fine, 
But  O  my  love,  no  gracious  heart  like  thine 

E'er  beat  within  another  woman's  breast! 
That  is  a  jewel  doth  become  thee  well : 
No  other  need'st  to  hold  me  by  its  spell. 


102 


GEMMA  GEM M ARUM. 
II. 

And  yet,  dear  heart,  the  best  were  not  too  good 
Of  polished  gold  and  gems  beyond  compare, 
Though  they  bedim  rather  than  make  more  fair 

Thy  potent  charm  of  gracious  womanhood. 

But  just  one  other  jewel  should'st  thou  wear 
Upon  that  faultless  hand  I  fain  would  hold : 
A  tiny  slender  circlet  of  strong  gold, 

Type  of  the  stanch  love  that  our  hearts  must  bear, 

And  set  therein  a  pure  white  stone,  aglow 
With  ceaseless  scintillations  whose  release 
Types  the  exhaustless  joy  ancj  the  great  peace 

(White  peace!)  which  only  mutual  trust  may  know. 
Dear,  wear  the  ring  that  I  have  given  thee, 
That  and  thy  heart  thy  sole  adornments  be ! 


103 


QUESTIONING. 

A  tremor  seizes  on  me  when  I  touch 

My  dear  one's  hand,  and  when  I  hear  her  voice 

My  very  inmost  being  doth  rejoice 
And  thrill  with  all  love-longing—all  too  much ! 

And  sometimes  when  in  bending  over  her 
I  breathe  the  fragrance  of  her  dusky  hair, 
Such  yearning  just  to  stroke  it  once  is  there 

Within  my  soul  that  I  can  scarce  defer. 

She  is  my  source  of  strength  and  from  her  eyes 
Of  all  quick-pulsing  life  I  drink  my  fill : 
As  an  exhaustless  spring  I  seek  them  still 

And  one  sweet  draught  exalts  and  vivifies. 

Then  why,  O  God !  must  love  like  this,  denied 
Bv  dread  disease,  still  starve  unsatisfied? 


104 


MY  THOUGHT  OF  THEE. 

My  thought  of  thee,  dear  heart,  is  as  a  dower 
Of  infinite  courage,   lifting  me  above 
The  rasp  and  fret  of  hourly  pain,  for  love 

Beyond  all  else  begets  the  sense  of  power. 

My  thought  of  thee,  dear  heart,  is  as  a  charm, 
A  talisman  such  as  knights  were  wont  to  wear, 
And  thou,  beloved,  my  Queen  of  Beauty  fair  — 

My  Summoner  to  bravely  front  all  harm. 


thought  of  thee,  dear  heart,  is  as  a  prayer, 
Giving  me  faith  in  high,  abiding  things, 
Thrilling  my  heart  with  holy  visionings, 
Bridging  the  dreary  leagues  from  Here  to  There. 

My  thought  of  thee,  dear  heart,  what  is  it  not 
Of  all  that's  good?—  Thank  God,  I've  ne'er  forgot! 


105 


MOODS   AND    MEMORIES 


"For  a  dream  cometh  through  the  multitude  <•/  business." 

— Scclesiastes,  &.  3. 


MOODS. 
I. 

Our  deeds  how  petty,  though  our  dreams  are  great ! 
In  the  fierce  maelstrom  of  a  boisterous  world 
Our  fragile  barks  all  aimlessly  are  whirled — 

Only  disasters  our  best  ventures  wait. 

Our  dream  ?  A  treacherous  phantom  of  our  sleep ! 
The  while  the  shrill  winds  wail  or  hoarsely  rage, 
In  futile  hope  of  final  harborage, 

Vainly  we  drift  o'er  life's  uncharted  deep. 

And  fear  is  ours,  thou  terrible  strange  Sea, 

Mother  of  Death  and  hideous  creeping  things 
That  writhe  and  crawl  in  slimy  clamberings 

Over  dead  forms — we  fear  thy  mystery. 

We  cannot  conquer  a  resistless  Fate — 

Our  deeds  how  petty,  though  our  dreams  are  great ! 


109 


MOODS. 
II. 

Our  deeds  are  petty,  but  our  dreams  how  great! 

What  though  our  barks  are  impotently  whirled, 

Are  we  not  mariners  of  a  venturous  world; 
Shall  we  not  front  the  foam-splurge,  free,  elate, 
Let  the  waves  roll,  and  let  the  shrill  winds  cry? 

Yes,  all  this  rampant  tumult  of  the  sea 

To  us  shall  only  a  glad  challenge  be 
Which  we  will  answer  unreluctantly ! 
Bare  we  our  bosoms  to  the  wintry  deep ! 

Who  knows  what  waits  us  o'er  the  utmost  verge? 

Ride  the  uncurbed  and  wildly  plunging  surge, 
Where  men  are  mounted,  vainly  doth  it  leap. 

Free-willed  are  we,  free-willed  in  spite  of  Fate — 

Our  deeds  are  petty,  but  our  dreams  how  great ! 


110 


OUR   NEED 

What  a  sad,  mad  sight  is  our  frenzied  strife  for 
The  toys  of  earth !  How  we  barter  life  for 
Tinsel  and  trash,  and  money  and  power — 
Baubles  that  pass  with  the  passing  hour! 
What  covetous  worrying  to  obtain 
That  which  brings  but  bitterness  if  we  gain, 
And  all  the  while  as  we  grab — or  give — 
Neglect  Life's  art  of  arts — to  live! 

How  we  sell  our  selves  for  some  transient  pleasure 
And  trample  under  our  feet  the  treasure 
Priceless,  indeed,  yet  to  all  men  free 
Who  would  place  above  the  to  have — to  be! 
How  we  strain  and  struggle  and  grovel  and  groan 
To  gain  possessions  "all  our  own" — 
Riches  or  glory  it  matters  not! — 
While  our  brother's  need  is  left  forgot. 

Are  we  not  fools  when  we  deem  him  shirk 
Who  refuses  to  sell  his  soul  to  WORK — 
WORK,  which  we  moderns  enshrine  as  God, 
Baring  our  backs  to  its  scourging  rod, 

111 


OUR  NEED. 

Gathering  and  squandering  things  that  seem 

With  never  a  glimpse,  through  their  dust,  of  the 

gleam 

Which  alone  shall  goal  to  our  strivings  give? 
We  have  learned  to  WORK — Lord,  help  us  LIVE! 


112 


"THE   BLUE   FLOWER. 


FLOWER,  compact  of  sky  and  fire, 
Goal  of  my  high  endeavor, 
Fair  object  of  my  heart's  desire, 
Fain  would  I  clasp  thee  ever! 

Long  since  I  felt  behind  my  all 

Became  a  world-wide  rover, 
That  ere  thine  azure  petals  fall 

I  might  their  charms  discover. 

And  ever  as  thou  beckonest  me 
From  far  hill-slope  or  hollow, 

My  heart  anew  is  fixed  on  thee 
And  after  still  I  follow. 

I  hasten  where  thy  splendors  gleam 
(Vain  haste!)  from  hour  to  hour; 

Mere  phantom  from  the  Realms  of  Dream 
Men  say  thou  art,  BLU£  FLOWKR! 


113 


THE  BLUE  FLOWER. 

But  I  who  often  see  thee  shine, 

Bright  visitant  elysian 
Whose  beauty  nerves  these  limbs  of  mine, 

I  know  thou'rt  no  false  vision. 

0  mystic  bloom  of  flame  and  sky, 
I   follow  though  I  tire: 

1  may  not  find  thee  till  I  die, 

But  then — my  heart's  desire ! 


114 


A  SONG  FOR  STANFORD. 

Strength  of  us,  soul  of  us,  mind  of  us,  heart  of  us, 
Stanford,  our  Stanford,  we  owe  much  to  thee, 

Many  an  impulse  to  good  that  is  part  of  us, 
Mother,  thou  gavest.     Thy  children  are  we! 

To  our  numbed  spirits  did'st  bring  liberation, 
Bidding  each  build  for  himself  his  own  soul. 

Shall  we,  then,  shrink  from  a  full  consecration  ?— 
That  were  ill-seeming  in  us  thus  made  whole ! 

Truth  was  thy  portion  for  all  that  did  yearn  for 
her— 

Truth,  the  supreme  setter-free  of  mankind; 
Wisdom  also  unto  them  that  dared  turn  to  her 

(Dark  are  her  ways  unto  them  that  are  blind !) 

What,  then,  thy  guerdon  for  all  thou  hast  done  for 
us, 

Loosing  so  many  from  gyves  of  the  slave? — 
This!  What  our  Stanford  so  stalwartly  won  for  us 

We  must  pass  on — freely  give  as  she  gave. 


115 


A  SONG  FOR  STANFORD. 


SPIRIT  OF  STANFORD,  the  glad  and  the  dauntless, 
May  thy  sons  aid  in  the  spread  of  the  Light, 

Tolerance,  Sacrifice,  Beauty,  while,  vauntless, 
Quietly  tread  they  the  pathway  of  Right! 


116 


THE  WORK   OF  THY  HANDS. 

Is  this  then  the  work  of  thy  hands, 
This  wreckage  and  carnage  and  flame? 

Was  it t thy  will  this  havoc  that  wrought 
To  herald  the  might  of  thy  Name? 

If  so,  we  should  curse  Thee,  O  God, 
Omnipotent  ev'n  as  Thou  art; 

Defiant,  in  anguish  and  scorn, 

Blaspheme  Thee,  with  hate  in  our  heart. 

We'd  cringe  not,  nor  craven  with  fear 
Implore  Thee, — our  lips  should  be  mute ! 

But  proud  in  our  impotence  stand, 
Nor  kneel  to  the  Power  of  the  Brute. 

But  this  is  not  thy  work,  O  God ! 

Not  thine  are  the  earthquake  and  fire, 
Our  Father,  and  Helper,  and  Friend, 

Destruction  is  not  thy  desire, 


117 


THH  WORK  OF  THY  HANDS. 

But  Brotherhood,  Sympathy,  Love! 

And  whereso  the  children  of  men 
Show  these  to  their  fellows,  we  find, 

Our  Lord  and  our  God,  Thee  again. 

Glad,  generous,  brave  as  of  yore, 
The  Soul  of  the  City  still  stands. 

It  is  here  that  we  find  Thee,  O  God, 
This,  this,  is  the  work  of  thy  hands! 

San  Francisco,  April,  1906. 


118 


LARGESS. 

God  must  have  smiled  when  He  made  it  so, 

Our  glorious  home  in  the  Golden  State ; 
Some  angel-jest  having  quickened  a  glow 

Even  beyond  that  love  so  great 
Which  ever  broods  o'er  the  sons  of  men; 

For  why  may  not  God  sometime,  elate, 
More  than  bountiful,  prodigal  then, 

Leaning  forth  from  the  crystal  gate, 
Have  lavished  his  largess  without  alloy 

Of  the  grief  and  want  and  storm  and  woe 
Wherewith  elsewhere  he  tempers  the  joy 

Of  his  gifts  to  men?    Ah,  surely  so 
To  CALIFORNIA  he  gave  her  dower 

Of  fertile  valleys  and  far-lifted  hills, 
Of  tilth  and  vineyard,  of  fruit  and  flower, 

Of  boisterous  surges  and  light-rippled  rills. 
God  must  have  smiled  when  He  leaned  Him  o'er 
And  lavished  the  best  of  his  Heaven — and  more ! 


119 


RECEPTIVITY. 

I  waited  in  the  dusk  for  her, 
The  crescent  moon  hung  low, 

The  last  faint  flush  had  faded  out 
Of  twilight's  afterglow. 

I  caught  the  scent  of  orchard  bloom 

On  the  still  evening  air — 
Delicate  fragrance  thrilling  me 

Like  breath  of  lavender. 

With  forehead  bared  and  heart  at  peace 

I   leaned   against  the  bars, 
And  worshiped  like  the  Chaldee  seers 

The  splendor  of  the  stars. 

One  glorious  planet  throbbed  and  burned. 

All  palpitant  with  light. 
(Surely  some  kindred  feeling  stirred 

The  bosom  of  the  night!) 

I  waited  in  the  dusk  for  her, 

Receptive  lay  my  soul ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  world 

Into  my  being  stole. 

120 


"FAITH  OF  OUR  FATHERS,  LIVING  STILL." 

God  having  provided  some  better  thing  for  us,  that  they  without  us  should  not 
be  made  perfect. 

The  glories  of  that  inextinguishable  flame 
Of  faith  which  Christ  left  to  His  followers, 
I  fain  would  frame  in  fitting  terms.     But  no! 
Who  dare  attempt  an  effort  such  as  this. 
Remembering  the  martyrs  of  old  times- 
Such  men  as  Stephen  or  the  saintly  Paul, 
Himself  the  best  exponent  of  such  faith, 
Yet  failing  utterly  to  compass  that, 
As  he  confesses  (though  in  noblest  phrase). 
That  which  the  Christ  alone,  incarnate  God, 
The  veritable  WORD,  hath  uttered  forth. 

I  fail.     And  who  would  not?    When  even  they, 
The  holy  martyrs,  caught  but  gleams  of  Truth,— 
The  starry  Galileo  from  his  tower, — 
Albeit  the  Church  herself  was  false  to  it. 
Yet  Truth  is  mighty  and  it  shall  prevail. 
Though  creeds  may  crumble  and  the  Church  herself. 
We  stand  on  Truth,  we  Protestants,  nor  yield, 
Though  shattered  into  dust  each  idol  lies 

121 


"FAITH  OF  OUR  FATHERS,  LIVING  STILL." 

That  once  we  cherished  wrongly  as  true  God. 
Truth  is  our  birthright  from  those  men  of  faith 
Who  in  her  darkest  hour  dared  to  defy 
Ecclesiastic  pomp  and  all  its  power, 
And  dauntless  stood  for  man's  inviolate  Will. 

What  need  to  call  that  roll?    And  yet  'tis  well! — 
Savonarola,  Bruno,  Luther,  Huss ; 
Wiclif,  and  Tindale,  and  the  youthful  Frith  ; 
Immortal  Latimer  and  Ridley ; — yea, 
Fisher  and  More  I  mention,  though  you  gasp, 
"Were  these  not  Catholics?"     I  grant  you  so. 
Yet  are  they  peers  of  all  who  forfeit  life 
For  that  which  doth  surpass  mere  life — heart's  faith  ! 
This  sealed  they  with  their  very  blood — all  these, 
In  sudden  death. 

"But  are  there  martyrs  none 
In  these  degenerate  days  ?"  I  answer,  Yes, 
Not  hesitant:     True  martyrs  that  would  die 
Gladly,  if  need  were,  for  the  faith  that  Christ 
Delivered  once  unto  the  saints.     But  now. 
Since  ax  and  stake  are  impotent,  they  live — 
— A  nobler  matter  infinitely ! — for  Christ's  cause : 
For  seeking  out  the  Truth  that  makes  men  free, 
(Fearing  nor  priest  nor  prelate  in  their  scorn. 
Nor  glowering  lust,  nor  skulking  truckling  sin, 
Nor  clutching  greed,  nor  Pharisaic  pride), 

122 


-FAITH  OF  OUE  FATHERS,  LIVING  STILL." 

And  daily  doing  deeds  of  selfless  love 

That  martyrs  of  old  time  scarce  dared  perform. 

For  in  this  glorious  age  wherein  we  live 

To  save  one's  own  soul  's  merely  pitiful : 

One  needs  must  save  as  well  some  brother-man. 

So  are  there  martyrs  still  in  these  our  days 
Who  feel  the  imperishable  flame  of  faith 
Warming  their  hearts  to  deeds  of  holy  love. 
But  doth  some  troubled  skeptic  doubt  me  here? 
Be  not  Elijahs,  brethren,  deeming  all 
Our  good  earth  rotten  to  the  very  core ! 
For  martyrs'  blood  is  still  the  Church's  seed 
And  Truth  shall  still  prevail,  though  all  the  forms 
We  reverence  vanish.     What  doth  God  require 
But  that  we  justly  do  and  mercy  love. 
And  walk  with  Him  and  help  our  fellow-men  ? 
Daily  more  brightly  burns  the  eternal  flame 
In  all  their  hearts  who  strive  to  uplift  mankind ! 


123 


THE  LEPERS. 

In  some  quaint  mediaeval  tome  I've  read — 

Black-lettered  and  illumined,  gray  with  dust, 

Its  ponderous  clasp  mottled  with  mould  and  rust — 

That  lepers  in  past  ages,  banished 

To  hideous  exile  from  society, 

Were  given  bells  (grim  irony!)  and,  mewed 

In  desolate  tracts  of  desert  solitude, 

Warned  passers-by  of  their  proximity. 

And  as  I  pondered  o'er  the  antique  scroll, 
Methought  the  legend  an  apt  parable 
Of  this  our  life.     Doth  not  each  bear  his  bell, 
Craving  companionship  for  a  lonely  soul? 
Yet,  though  their  tones  plead  for  Love's  tenderness. 
We  tread  our  paths  alone,  estranged  and  comfort 
less. 


124 


THOSE  WASTED  DAYS. 

Last   night    I    waked,   having   dreamed    I    saw   the 

days — 

Those  wasted  days ! — spent  idly  in  my  life, 
Or  foolishly,  when,  faltering  in  the  strife, 

I  paused  in  midst  of  toil  to  hear  men's  praise. 

And  in  my  dream  those  days  beset  me  round — 
Those  wasted  days! — and  when  I  sought  to  scale 
The  heights  to  heaven  they  did  me  assail 

Implacably,  and  pinned  me  to  the  ground. 

And  I — what  could  I  do?    For  ev'n  when  oft 
From  out  their  clutch  my  soul  I  wrested  free. 
Still  grim,  persistent,  they  did  follow  me 

To  Heaven's  very  gate,  and  grinned  and  scoffed 
Till  from  before  the  Master's  pitying  face 
I  slunk  rebuked — damned  by  those  wasted  days ! 


Ill 


THE  UNFINISHED  TEMPLE 

My  virgin  soul  for  her  a  temple  built 
Whereto  she  might  retire  and  be  at  ease, 
And  there  she  knelt  in  instant  prayer  to  please 

Him  who  for  her  his  precious  blood  had  spilt. 

So  thought  my  soul  to  cleanse  her  from  all  stain. 
For  in  this  temple  was  not  any  sin, 
Nor  any  unclean  thing  might  enter  in 

Her  from  her  constant  orisons  to  restrain. 

Thus  kept  my  soul  secure  from  earthly  taint ; 

Yet  she  that  was  of  evil  more  affright 

Than  ever  was  austerest  eremite 
Within  those  temple  walls  grew  strangely  faint. 

For  this  was  lacking  in  that  paradise: 

No  altar  stood  therein  for  sacrifice ! 


126 


BETHEL. 

We  may  climb  if  we  will  in  good  time  to  earth's 

highest  and  best, 
Be  we  zealous  to  work  and  to  wait,  to  push  on  and 

to  rest 
At  the  seasons  appointed  ;  undaunted  and  steadfast 

of  will 

We  may  lift  us  at  length  unto  summits  ne'er  trod 
den  until 
Our  feet  had  first  pressed  them.     But  when  on  earth's 

ultimate  height 
We   stand    in    our   triumph,    what   then?      Shall   the 

beckoning  light 

That  lures  us  with  glory  supernal  afar  and  afar 
Into  realms  of  that  infinite  space  wherein  star  calls 

to  star 
But  mock  us?  And  all  of  our  wearisome  striving  but 

go 
To  prove  us  deluded  mad  dreamers  of  dreams?    Ah, 

not  so ! 
'Tis  by  ladders  of  dream  that  alone  the  heights  of 

the  highest  we  scale; 


127 


BETHEL. 


On  the  Wings  of  the  Spirit  we  mount  where  the 
feet  of  the  body  must  fail, 

All-confident,  fearless,  and  glad  while  the  welcom 
ing  angels  cry  "HAIL!" 


COUPLETS. 
-  I. 

Let  honors  as  they  may  befall, 
So  Honor  but  abide  through  all. 

II. 

What  good  to  any  man  his  creed. 
If  he  ignore  a  neighbor's  need? 

*  III. 

No  one  should  expect  if  his  ethics  are  tainted, 
Himself  for  right  doctrines  alone  to  be  sainted. 

IV. 

Our  deeds  still  journey  with  us  from  afar, 
And  what  we  have  been  lives  in  what  we  are. 

V. 

Despite  of  sense,  still  lives  a  silent  trust 

That  day  will  dawn,  that  man  is  more  than  dust. 


129 


TWELVE    QUATRAINS. 

I. 

SOUTUDE. 
In  the  midst  of  the  music  and  laughter, 

The   holiday   tumult  and  stir, 
My  heart,  all  a'weary  and  lonely, 

Yearns — how  much  ! — for  one  fond  look  from  her. 

II. 

THE  SOLUTION. 
Ah,  after  all,  'tis  only  Love 

For  which  the  tired  heart  cares ; 
Learning  and  Wealth  and  Fame  but  prove, 

At  last,  delusive  snares. 

III. 

HOW  VAST  THE   DISTANCE. 
How  vast  the  distance  that  divides  the  dead 

From  those  still  living.     Yet  it  seems  as  naught 
To  that  which  intervenes  between  those  wed, 

Whom  Love  hath  never  in  true  union  wrought. 

130 


TWELVE  QUATRAINS. 


IV. 

TO  A  FREE  THINKER. 
Ay,  thou  art  free — too  free  with  thy  bold  lips, 

Busied  with  shattering  life's  sweet  sanctities 
And  making  faith  darken  in  drear  eclipse. 

O  Spirit  that  Denies,  my  curse  for  this ! 


V. 


THE  ABIDING  CREED. 

Like  the  Lord  Christ  to  live  thine  own  life  well, 
And,  spite  of  skeptic  sneer  and  laughter,  still 
Like  Him  ye  love  to  render  good  for  ill : 
This  is  one  creed  that  stands  immutable. 

VI. 

AFTERMATH. 

What  fruitage  this  from  Death  and  Scorn ! 
Naught  can  restrain  the  quickened  soul, 
Nor  stay  it  from  its  glorious  goal, 

Nor  rob  it  of  its  Easter  Morn. 


131 


TWELVE  QUATRAINS. 


VII. 

CHASTISEMENT. 

Who  hath  no  need  of  pain 

To  chasten  and  control, 
God  pity  him,  for  he  must  be 

Dwarfed  and  infirm  of  soul. 

VIII. 

DESERT  VISION. 

Happy  who  sees  with  onward-straining  eyes, 
Beyond  the  mud-hut  of  life's  sordid  real, 

Though  blinded  by  the  brazen  desert  skies, 
The  radiant  snow-peaks  of  his  soul's  ideal. 


IX. 


THE  EPITAPH. 

One  who,  when  wearied  with  the  strife  for  place, 
And  earth's  unending  toil  and  stern  duress, 

Became  enamored  of  Death's  placid  face, 
Wooed  her,  and  fell  asleep  of  her  caress. 


132 


TWELVE  QUATJSAIN8. 


X. 

ENDEAVOR. 

Who  use  not  lose  their  strength  to  use, 
We  may  not  hoard  our  powers, 

For  what  we  keep  is  lost  to  us, 
But  what  we  give  is  ours. 

XI. 

THE   IDEAL. 

In  every  poet-soul  rings  one  refrain 
Ne'er  to  be  heard  by  the  unheeding  train ; 
And  every  artist  in  his  heart  of  heart 
Treasures  one  face  beyond  the  touch  of  Art. 

XII. 

THE  UNCONTROLLED. 

Three  things,  nay  rather  four,  there  be 

Beyond  man  to  control : 
Heaven's  stars,  the  persistent-scarping  sea, 

Death,  and  his  own  indomitable  soul. 


133 


SLEEPLESS. 

Sleep,  O  my  God,  send  sleep! 

I  can  endure 

Disease  that  knows  no  cure, 
If  Thou  grant  sleep. 

Even  as  I  sowed,  I  reap : 

I  ask  not  hope, 

Nor  dread  with  Death  to  cope, 
But,  Oh,  give  sleep! 

Forms,  fearsome,  'round  me  creep 
While  night  drags  on, 
Come  thou,  Oblivion, 

Complete,  in  sleep! 

Oblivion,  dull  and  deep, — 

Nought  else  I  crave: 

Dreams,  nor  to  cheat  the  grave. 
This  only — sleep ! 

Lord,  Thy  beloved  dost  keep 

When  day  is  done; 

Why  may  not  I  be  one, 
Dear  God — and  sleep  ? 

134 


FROM  THE  SICK  ROOM. 

Teach  me,  Father,  how  to  be 
Patient  in  my  misery. 
If  the  day  be  blank  and  drear 
Dragging  out  its  slow  career, 
Shall  the  night  not  come  again 
With  its  kind  release  from  pain  ? 
Or  if  on  my  couch  T  toss 
Shall  I  count  it  such  a  cross 
That  the  long   night  watches  creep, 
Knowing  thou  dost  thy  vigil  keep. 
And  that  thy  calm  morning  light 
Follows  our  most  fretful  night? 

In  this  close  room  from  dusk  till  dawn 
All  alone,  with  curtains  drawn, 
Shutting  out  the  sun  and  sky, 
It  is  tiresome.  Lord,  to  lie. 
Yet  shall  I  murmur  when  I  find 
A  Presence  fresher  than  the  wind, 
And  fairer  than  the  evening  star, 
And  sweeter  than  wood  violets  are, 


135 


PROM   THE  SICK  ROOM. 

What  are  loneliness  and  pain 
If  I  find   thee,  Lord,  again? 
Father,  may  I  learn  to  be 
Patient  in  mv  misery. 


136 


FAILURE. 

Life  is  made  up  of  broken  bars 

Whose  notes    discordant  ring  ; 
Like  children  who  would  clutch  the  stars 

We  fail  in  everything. 

And  yet  do  not  the  futile  dream, 

The  ideal  never  won, 
The  evanescent,  mystic  gleam 

Still  lure  us  up  and  on  ? 

Surely  the  heights  we  vainly  scan, 

The  hopes  wherein  we  fail, 
Have  place  within  the  cosmic  plan 

Of  Him  behind  the  veil. 

Our  striving  is  its  own  reward, 

E'en  though  we  ne'er  attain ; 
In  failure  may  we  find  Thee,  Lord, 

And  learn  our  loss  is  gain ! 

Somehow,  somewhere — though  how  or  where 

Our  eyes  not  yet  may  see — 
The  work  we  mar  shall  be  made  fair 

And  perfected  by  Thee. 

137 


VICTOR. 

He  knows,  and  sometime  we  shall  also  know. 

Although  we  drift  storm-tossed  by  doubts  and  fears, 

And  only  see  the  wrecks  of  wasted  years, 

The  markings  of  His  chart  shall  clearer  grow. 

Who,  hushing  self,  can  say,  "Thy  will  be  done," 

Is  noblest  conqueror;  echoing  huzzas 

He  needs  not,  nor  the  laurel :     his  applause 

I^ies  in  the  consciousness  of  victory  won, 

Who  lifts  his  face  faith-radiant  to  the  skies, 

And  makes  himself  triumphant  o'er  the  hot 

Heart-passions  and  vain  questionings  that  seize 

And  throttle  what  is  holiest — he  is  wise. 

Master  thy  doubts !  Life's  proudest  fields  are  not 

Her  Marathons,  but  her  Gethsemanes. 


138 


DE  IMITATIONE  CHRIST!. 

Do  thou  grant  me,  O  God,  to  speak  the  word  that  is 

helpful  and  wise, 

To  do  the  thing  that  is  right,  no  matter  what  hard 
ships  arise; 
Do  thou  smite  me  down  if  I  slack  in  the  work  thou 

wouldst  have  me  to  do, 
Or  cringe  to  the  mighty  and  false,  ignoring  the  good 

and  the  true ; 
Do  thou  scorch  with  the  flame  of  thy  scorn  all  traces 

of  selfhood  away. 
To  the  end  that  my  deeds  may  be  just  and  potent 

the  prayers  that  I  pray ; 
And  in  all  that  I  speak  or  perform,  dear  Lord,  be  it 

ever  to  thee 
That  I  look  both  for  praise  and  for  blame,  intent  on 

thy  purpose  with  me ! 


139 


THE  NEW  EARTH. 

It  shall  come,   the  glorious   dawning 

Of  that  better  time  to  be, 
When  no  longer,  cringing,  fawning, 

Man  shall  stand  erect  and  free. 
Each  shall  think   then  of  the  other — 

Think  not  how  to  make  him  tool 
For  some  selfish  end,  but  brother: 

Seek  to  rescue,  not  to  rule ! 

Songs  of  labor  shall  take  place  of 

Muffled  curses,  roll  of  drum, 
Men  no  longer  share  disgrace  of 

Bloody  bayonet,  deadly  bomb. 
Nation  shall  not  war  on  nation, 

Mankind  shall  advance  as  one ; 
Peace  shall  reign — blest  consummation  !- 

Blot  out  deeds  of  carnage  done. 

It  shall  come,  the  prophets'  vision. 

Poets'  dream  of  selfless  life, 
Long  a  theme  for  fools'  derision, — 

Glad  cessation  from  all  strife. 


140 


THE  NEW  EARTH. 

All  the  miseries  of  oppression, 

Mocking  spectres  of  despair, 
Squalor,  deadening  toil,  privation, 

All   shall   perish.  —  "When  and   where?" 

This  you  ask  me,  comrade,  rightly!  — 

When  the  shackled  Soul  of  Man, 
Now  dumb-driven,  inert,  unsightly, 

Dares  its  clarion  call,  "I  can  !" 
"Where?"    Wherever,  unifying, 

Toilers  take  their  stand  at  last 
Stanch  in  fellowship,  defying 

Their  grim  tyrants  of  the  past. 


It  shall  come  !  A  new  creation 

For  mankind  shall  be  unrolled, 
And  in  Christ-like  consecration 

Souls  shall  count  for  more  than  gold. 
Then  our  dreams  of  God  the  Father 

And  the  Brotherhood  of  Man 
We  shall  find  not  dreams,  but  rather 

Pentecost  on  earth  again  ! 

Ignorance,  greed,  and  lust  outspoken, 
Fetters  all  that  bind  mankind, 

Shall  in  that  good  time  be  broken, 
Freeing  body,  spirit,  mind- 

141 


THH  NEW  EARTH. 

"When  will  this  relief  be  given," 

Would  you  ask  me,  brothers  dumb? — 

Not  in  some  far-distant  heaven, 

Strive  we — here  on  earth — 't  will  come  ! 


142 


"THE  QUICK  AND  THE  DEAD. 

Who  with  his  fellows  hath  no  lot, 
No  potency  for  good  or  ill, 
No  place  another  might  not  fill, 

Is  dead,  although  he  knows  it  not. 

But  he  who  shared  the  common  lot, 
Some  little  place  was  glad  to  fill, 
And  moved  some  heart  for  good  or  ill, 

Though  dead,  lives  on,  long  unforgot. 


143 


A  PRAYER. 

These  things  I  covet,  Lord,  and  pray 
That  thou  wilt  grant  them  me  some  day: 
The  will  to  do  and  the  strength  to  bear, 
•High  hope  in  man,  firm  faith  in  prayer; 
Work's  joy,  home's  peace  when  work  is  through, 
With  love  of  a  woman,  leal  and  true; 
And  children,  too,  if  thy  will  it  be, 
To  prattle  upon  their  father's  knee; 
And  a  heart  where  love  shall  be  all  in  all. 
If  these  things  may  to  my  fortune  fall, 
No  more  at  thy  bounteous  hands  I'll  crave 
But  a  clean,  strong  life  and  an  honored  grave ; 
That  I  may  be  mourned  by  my  fellows,  Lord, 
As  a  good  man  gone  to  his  just  reward. 


144 


WHEN  I  LIE  DYING. 

When  I  lie  dying,  I  would  have  no  tears, 

No  noiseful  wailing  nor  the  wringing  of  hands 
To  mark  my  setting  forth  to  unknown  lands, 

For  all  must  go  with  passing  of  the  years. 

Rather  a  word  of  cheer  from  each  to  all, 
Congratulatory,  as  of  one  who  fares 
On  brave  adventures  bent  and  gladly  dares 

Dire  perils  if  but  noble  occasions  call. 

Still,  if  one  doth  hold  fast  persistent  grief 
At  loss  of  me,  nor  aught  may  ease  his  pain, 
This  would  I  urge  could  I  but  speak  again: 

"Haste  thou  to  bring  some  brother  man  relief. 
So  shalt  most  soon  thy  sore  wound  cease  to  feel 
Who  heals  another's  hurt,  his  own  doth  heal." 


145 


THE  ANSWER. 

"What  art  thou,  Life?"     The  query  ceasless  went 
From  lip  to  lip,  unsolved,  in  ages  past. 
That  riddle  to  the  dumb,  unanswering  vast 
Of  desert  night  the  Hebrew  patriarchs  sent. 
In  restless  Athens  wise  men  curious  sought 
To  solve  the  same  enigma.     Caesars  proud, 
O'er  all  their  imperial  splendors  felt  the  cloud 
Brooding,  of  whence  and  whither.   They  had  bought 
Gladly  an  answer,  at  expense  of  all 
That  glorious  pomp  of  Rome  for  which  they  strove , 
But  pondered  vainly.     Then  in  Bethlehem's  stall 
Was  born  the  Babe,  of  lowliest  parentage, 
Who  to  the  mystery  that  perplexed  the  sage 
For  myriad  years,  made  answer:     "Life  is  Love!" 


146 


EVEN  AS  A  MOTHER. 

Even  as  a  mother  oft  is  fain  to  hide 

Herself  sometimes   from  her  beloved  child, 
Who,  missing  the  dear  face  that  on  him  smiled. 

First  seeks,  then  fears,  then  wholly  terrified 

Runs  here  and  there,  and,  without  her  to  guide, 
Stumbles  and  falls — then  feels  himself  entwined 
Suddenly  by  her  arms  and  sees  her  kind, 

Sweet  face  above  him,  and  is  satisfied; 

Even  so,  our  Father,  thou  dost  oft  conceal 
Thyself  from  us  a  little  while,  and  lo! 
Thy  children  stumble  blindly  to  and  fro, 

And  weep,  or  curse  (O  God!),  or  cease  to  feel. 
Why  fail  they,  Lord,  to  see  thou  art  not  gone, 
But  merely  prov' st,  in  thy  great  Love,  their  own  ? 


147 


MORS  IMPOTENS. 

*.!.-,    \ ' 

Could  I  but  write  some  word  that  should  recall 
One  driven  from  the  harbor  of  his  hope, 
Enheartening  him  more  valiantly  to  cope 
Against  the  spiritual  bufferings  that  befall ; 
Or  by  one  act  of  mine  inspire  a  sense 
Of  love  and  of  love's  everlastingness, 
Thus  quelling  hatreds  that  so  oft  suppress 
Faith  in  the  Holy  Spirit's  immanence; 
Could  I  bequeath,  though  through  long  sufferings. 
That  which  would  lift  our  sordid  world  along 
To  life  more  holy  and  diviner  song. 
And  trust  in  Him  whose  law  encompasseth 
This  seeming  lawless  clash  and  swirl  of  things- 
Then  were  thy  terrors  impotent,   O  Death! 


148 


ALPHA  AND  OMEGA. 

" ' Fecisti  nos  ad  (e,    et  cor  nostrum  inquietum  est  donee   rtquiescat   in  te." 

— A  ugustine. 

Long  had  I  pondered  over  many  things, 
For  men  once  men  may  not  at  rest  remain. 
I  strove  to  calm  my  riotous  heart  in  vain, 

All  clamorous  with  importunate  questionings  ; 

So  many  problems  that  perforce  arise. 
So  many  mysteries  of  life  and  time. 
Perplexities  and  conflicts,  thoughts  sublime 

And   thoughts   ignoble   must   it   harmonize. 

Doctrines  and  dogmas  tossed  it  to  and  fro, 
The  direful  strife  between  free  will  and  fate, 
The  fond  desire  to  know  the  ultimate — 

Futile  today  as  in  the  long  ago. 

But  now,  dear  Lord,  that  old  unrest  hath  died  ; 
Since  I  have  found  thee,  there  is  naught  beside. 


149 


"SHALL  THE  IMMORTAL  DIE?" 

Before  the  heavens,  O  thou  Soul  of  mine, 

Were  star-bestudded,  ere,  from  chaos  planned, 
God  summoned  forth  the  waters  and  the  land. 
Didst  thou  exist,  immortal  and  divine. 
Behind  the  memories  of  this  earthly  strife 
Thou  hadst  thy  being  in  infinity 
And  only  as  infinite  can  I  think  of  thee, 
Whose  very  self  affirms  eternal  life. 
What  then,  O  Soul,  if  Death  relentlessly 
Doth  ready  make  to  hurl  his  fatal  dart, 
Shalt  thou  in  that  dread  peril  have  thy  part, 
Or  shalt  unharmed  follow  thy  flying  goal  ? 
My  body  he  may  vanquish.     But,  O  Soul, 
Defy  thou  Time,  nor  fear  Mortality. 


150 


UIF  IT  WERE  ONLY  A  DREAM." 

If  it  were  only  a  dream, 

Were  it  not  well  to  cherish 
Faith  which  refuses  to  deem 

Us  one  with  the  beasts  that  perish? 
If  it  were  only  a  dream, 

Were  it  not  well  to  keep 
Hope  which  illumes  with  its  gleam 

The  murk  where  the  death  mists  creep  ? 

If  it  were  only  a  dream — 

This  of  the  riven  tomtH— 
Should  we  not  foster  the  beam 

Lighting  the  grave  and  its  gloom  ? 
If  it  were  only  a  dream — 

Ah,  but  it  is  not  so ! 
In  our  best  moments  we  seem 

Not  merely  to  trust,  but  to  know ! 


151 


HORIZONS. 

"Whither?"  I  asked  of  the  laughing  child, 
As  he  danced  along  by  some  dream  beguiled. 
"Nay,  hinder  me  not,"  was  his  eager  call, 
"For  Fairyland  lies  just  over  the  wall!" 

"Whither?"  I  asked  of  the  stalwart  youth. 
As  he  jostled  the  throng  without  pause  or  ruth. 
"Who  climbs  to  yon  mountain's  topmost  rim. 
El  Dorados  there  are  awaiting  him !" 

"Whither?"  I  questioned  the  aged  saint, 

W7ayfarer  still,  though  bent  and  faint. 

"I  follow  the  light  of  yon  setting  star. 

And  beyond,  where  the  loved  of  the  Homeland  are !" 


152 


EVEN  AS  HERE,  SO  THERE. 

Just  a  little  longer 

Here  I  have  to  stay 
Ere  the  Voice  shall  call  me, 

Call  me  far  away. 

Whither,  Lord,  I  wonder 
Shall  Thy  new  mission  be, 

To  what  strange  dominion, 
What  untraversed  sea? 

What  credentials  given. 
Or  chart  to  keep  from  fear ; 

Or  will  it  be  yonder 
Even  as  'twas  here : — 

Strength  not  found  but  fought  for, 
Grace  hard-earned,  not  given. 

Vigilance  our  only  hope 
Even  there  in  heaven? 

Under  sealed  orders. 

Faith  our  only  word. 
Sailing  blithely  forward, 

Lo,  we  trust  thee,  Lord ! 
153 


EVEN  AS  HERE,   SO   THERE 

Seek  we  not  as  guerdon 
Rest,  although  well-won : 

Grant  us  still  the  will  to  strive 
On,  and  always  on! 


154 


I    MUST   GO   SOFTLY. 

I  must  go  softly  all  my  days. 
No  more  the  ready  leap 
To  breast  the  storm,  or  brave  the  deep, 
Or  scale  the  unconquered  steep, 

But  strengthless  o'er  life's  flat  monotonous  ways, 

I  must  go  softly  all  my  days. 

I  must  go  softly  all  my  days. 

Never  again  for  me 

The  splendid  glory  of  the  free 

Brave  life  that  used  to  be, 
Glad  effort's  thrill  that  for  all  effort  pays. 
I  must  go  softly  all  my  days. 

I  must  go  softly  all  my  days. 
O  heart,  keep  strong  and  sweet, 
Nor  fear,  save  cowardly  retreat! 
Lord,  guide  my  laggard  feet, 

And  lead  them  still  in  thine  appointed  ways. 

I  must  go  softly  all  my  days. 


155 


IMMORTALITY. 

Ofttimes  at  sea,  across  the  waters  gray, 

I've  watched  the  wavering  far  horizon  line 
Where  the  calm  sky  meets  the  unresting  brine, 

How  ever  at  fixed  distance  it  doth  stay  ! 

Hour  after  hour  the  good  ship  ploughs  her  way, 
With  quivering  prow  and  engines  pulsing  fast, 
Yet  never  is  that  dim  line  overpast. 

Nor  is  that  space  diminished  day  by  day. 

And  thus  methought:     When  this  our  life's  rough 

stream 
With  death's  calm  dome  shall  seem  to  meet  and 

merge, 
May  we  not  find  that  meeting  all  a  dream, 

And  o'er  some  vast  and  immemorial  surge, 

While  yet  beyond  our  ken  great  waters  gleam, 

Sail  on,  and  on, — nor  find  an  utmost  verge ! 


YB  11801 


